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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313196">summer’s gone (and these winters are so cold)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseungodlyhours/pseuds/falseungodlyhours'>falseungodlyhours</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outer Banks (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Angst, Depictions of grief, F/M, Gets worse before it gets better, M/M, New Year's Fluff, jj maybank is secretly a poet, mentions/references to abuse, present and flashbacks, unedited and unbeta'd because life got in the way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:55:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,629</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseungodlyhours/pseuds/falseungodlyhours</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>JJ’s never been to The Lookout.</p><p>He knows where it is, in theory. </p><p>The polished wooden beach house is hard to miss---crystallized windows flicker in the sunlight, chalk-white walls blend in with the snow. It all works together so seamlessly he can’t drag his eyes away, it irritates him. Like the reference on a puzzle box, distant and finished. </p><p>There’s also the fucked-up fact that he drives by it everyday. </p><p>*</p><p>After years of disjointed texts and not-so-subtle avoidance tactics, JJ ends up snowed in for a few days with Kiara in her Kook beach house. They try to make up for lost time.</p><p>Or, four Christmases that sucked for JJ and Kiara and one that wasn’t so bad.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>JJ &amp; John B. Routledge, JJ &amp; Kiara (Outer Banks), JJ &amp; Pope (Outer Banks), JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks), Kiara &amp; Pope (Outer Banks), Pope (Outer Banks)/Original Male Character(s), Sarah Cameron &amp; JJ</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title is from Summer's Gone by Maria Lynn</p><p>Merry Christmas y'all &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Past JJ and Present JJ aren’t that different. Some things have changed---thankfully---he’s taller and his arms are bigger and yeah, he looks a little more worn-down. Part of growing up, or maybe, just too much time in the sun. Little JJ is also new JJ, the beta version of old JJ, chipped JJ, thrift store JJ. What makes him feel a little less shitty is the things that haven't changed---his hair is just as bleached from the sun, he still has bags under his eyes that make him look just tired enough to be unpredictable (little bastards), his eyes have that same twinkle that makes him look like he’s plotting something even when he’s not. </p><p>Little JJ is in a shapeless sweater that is the kind of yellow that shouldn’t be allowed to be a color. All of the Pogues are---something last-minute Mrs. Heyward had thrown together, bandaids she meant to cover the fucked-up distortion between them and the other kids on the island, the almost-lack of anything under that shedding, annoying tree, the scratches and chapped lips and red noses that characterized the Pogues during the winter --- unassuming and polite and completely out of their element. They’re huddled together in the living room of the Chateau, skinny arms awkwardly hanging off each other, four identical grins that make their eyes look closed. They look ridiculous and it makes his chest hurt. </p><p>They’re a little blurry---the picture was snapped half-hazardly by Big John, who was more concerned about the turkey he had shoved into the oven half-hazardly. There are staples across JJ and Pope, the picture’s discolored and tearing at the edges, stuck by it’s center to the wall behind the counter in Heyward’s, neighboring a couple others. Pope, at his first Academic Decathlon (it took JJ a week to be able to say that word). There’s Heyward and Yvonne on the beach, hand-in-hand, and whoever took it did a shitty job (he suspects Pope, because he can’t do anything without shaky hands). There’s also Pope and John B, holding a striped bass between them, grinning smugly. </p><p>He looks at it all, scratched-up and washed-out, as the chaos warms his back like he’s facing away from a fireplace. He feels people moving around the shop behind him, hears someone laughing, maybe even some holiday spirit. </p><p>Pope appears at his side, wearing the the same fucking sweater, a fact that has not stopped being funny since he showed up in the shop this morning and Mrs. Heyward had gasped aloud and JJ and Julian laughed so hard their sides ached. It’s almost a crop-top on him now, even shorter when he folds his arms in front of him---mercifully, he’s got a muscle tank on under it. He smirks at the photos. “Dad likes to act hard, but he’s always been disgustingly sentimental.” </p><p>“Look at my hair,” JJ smiles wryly at the shot in the Chateau. That had been a good year. One of the last, he suspects.</p><p>“What did Big J used to say?” Pope squints at the photo, like it’ll tell him. “You looked like you’d been struck by lightning.”</p><p>“No, no, he would wait till there was a storm,” JJ slides into the memory easily, laughter already backing his words like he’s a kid. “He’d wait for me to come up the drive, or till we took our jackets off, and---remember---he’d jump and his eyes would go all big, and he’d be like, <em> “Shit, son. Got you good, huh?" </em></p><p>Pope chuckles, full-on, in his chest. “Remember how Kiara used to poke you and act like it shocked her?” </p><p>JJ smirks and it comes out more stale than he thought it would. </p><p>“What do you, uh…” Pope’s always danced around it. “What do you think she’s up to?” </p><p>He shrugs, looks away, like he’s sixteen. Doesn’t have something smart to say to that. Instead, he glances at the sweater again. “You’re gonna have to take that off when we start making the rounds.”</p><p>Pope starts to protest, but he’s already there. “We’ve gotta go out with <em> some </em>dignity.” </p><p>Heyward’s is a <em> we </em> ---always has been. When he was a kid, he was here more than he was at his own house. They’ve done enough deliveries between the four of them to be considered honorary employees. No matter how much time passes, this will always be a <em> we </em>, in the same way the Cut is a family. The Chateau is a refuge. The Pogues were a tribe.</p><p>He hasn’t gone totally radio-silent, he’s popped in a couple times over the years---to exchange small-talk with Mrs. Heyward and a nod or two with Mr. Heyward, maybe he’s trying to convince himself he hasn’t let it all go. It’s just hard. He walks up the front and sees him and Pope and JB sitting at one of the tables, picking apart clams and throwing more at each other than they eat. He hears the little jingle at the door and he’s pushing through it with Kiara, holding it at the edge so she can slip through behind him as she talks about her day. Even looking at it, all of the clumsily-structured aisles, the faded sign against the back wall, the stupid sailor figurine on the counter next to the register---JJ’s a basket-case. It’s easier to not come around at all. </p><p>Now, standing in the warmth and frenzy, he wishes he had sent that application he’d filled out at eighteen. He just hadn’t needed to be reminded of all of it, and Heyward remembers everything. He wonders where they’d be, if he had. Maybe if there’d been an extra set of hands, no matter how shaky and scarred, maybe this wouldn’t be happening. </p><p>After a lifetime of providing for and sustaining the Cut, Heyward’s is being replaced with a hotel for second-homers who barely need it. After all the work, the hours and the empty nights and the legacy, this is it. It’s killing him. He can’t imagine how Pope feels. </p><p>He can’t imagine Pope would have even come through this year, if not for this. He still celebrates, with his family, up in Norfolk. JJ gets a card every year, a golden family in matching sweaters with a scenic background, a decorated frame. Somehow, they bring more distance than comfort, make him feel like he’s an old acquaintance, an obligation. They’re shoved into the glove compartment in his truck he’s never needed to open. He’s memorized car manuals and ignores speeding tickets and forgets about the first aid kit shoved under the clutter. He resents the nuclear family, and hates himself for it. </p><p>“Hey, uh…” Pope shifts on his feet. “Thanks for comin,’ man.” </p><p>JJ looks at the photos. Smiles. Nods.</p><p>Pope’s shaky, quieter beside him. “I know...I know this time of year’s hard. For all of us. Uh...it just, it means a lot.”</p><p>“Pogue Lyfe,” JJ makes a ‘hang loose’ sign, shakes his wrist until Pope chuckles. </p><p>“Pogue Lyfe,” Pope agrees with a wistful smile, shakes his head. Without thinking about it, they go for the classic handshake, Pope’s trademark, but it falls short somehow. They botch the second step, it ends up being an awkward, formal grip. They hold on for a beat longer than would probably be considered normal. </p><p>Their bliss is tragically smacked upside the head when they hear Heyward come in from the front, carrying a box full of shit you’d see at a garage sale. “The hell are y’all standing around for?” </p><p>“<em> Dad, </em>” Pope says, as Hugo comes through the door behind him, makes a beeline for them. He glances pointedly at his son. JJ doesn’t say anything, because he made the same mistake when he met Pope’s family when they pulled into the Banks about a week ago.</p><p>This is the second time JJ’s met Hugo, and he looks like he’s stepped straight out of one of the cards. He’s half Pope’s size, thick curly hair and twinkling eyes that remind JJ of someone, he’s not sure who, and a snaggly grin that never seems to quite leave his face. He’s wearing a navy-blue sweater a la Yvonne, that’s smoother and less loose and, at least JJ’s suspects, less homey. </p><p>Hugo hugs his dad’s legs, looks at JJ in a way that makes him want to leave all this for a bar up in Knotts and terrible eggnog. He tries a smile. </p><p>Hugo’s eyes glint and a finger reaches out towards his leg. “Zap!” He says, jerking back after making contact. JJ aches everywhere. He gives it a moment to fade into him, become white noise.</p><p>He looks at his Pope, lets his jaw drop mockingly. Pope chuckles at his son. The look in his eyes can only be described as guilty. </p><p>Heyward drops the boxes against the far wall, stops to ruffle the hair of his nephew, who’s sitting on the floor, sorting through piles of clothes. Marcus scowls, swats at him, as he chuckles, full-on, in his chest. He turns back towards the counter, takes them in, folds his arms over his chest. He’s got on a wool coat that makes him look like a giant teddy-bear. He raises his eyebrows at Pope first. “Your son’s on it more than you.”</p><p>“We’re just checkin’ out the art project you’ve got goin’ on over here,” JJ rubs at his chin, pretends he’s admiring it. “No need to be a Scrooge.”</p><p>Heyward’s eyebrows raise impossibly higher. “If I’m Scrooge, what do you think you are?”</p><p>He starts to fire back, but then the door jingles. Julian’s in the doorway, spluttering in a maroon parka and three beanies layered on top of his head. He shuts the door behind him quickly, pats at his shoulders and arms as he tries to catch his breath. Snow powders in the air and trickles down to the mat. He takes off his glasses, swipes some off of his face and neck. “This is the third time they’ve gotten me.”</p><p>They can make out Willie and Grubbs, a couple of kids from Nags Head whose parents made them agree to help, out the front window, hands in their hoodies, like they’re posting up, instead of bringing in the boxes they’d been sent to get. “They’re hazing you,” JJ reassures Julian. “You’re fresh meat. It’s not personal.” </p><p>Pope’s husband crosses the room towards the counter, settles onto a stool opposite from them. Rubs his gloves together. </p><p>“You gotta stop showing weakness, son,” Heyward says, settling at the end of the counter in front of a couple of board games and gift wrap. He’s looking at it like it might snap at him. He starts wrapping anyway. “They eat that shit up.”</p><p><em> “Dad </em>,” Pope groans, moves to cover his son’s ears. Hugo wrestles out of his grip, shuffles onto a stool beside his other dad. </p><p>“I’ll protect you Daddy,” Hugo puffs his chest out, pats Julian’s arm. </p><p>JJ smirks, glances at Pope, but there’s something behind his eyes that makes him want to look away. He’s smiling at his family, something quiet and proud and personal, and JJ recognizes this look. It used to be reserved for the pictures. </p><p>Pope’s roots got dry and cracked and torn up, and now they’re somewhere else.</p><p>“Thanks bud,” Julian ruffles his son’s hair. “But I think we need more help in here.” </p><p>“I can do it! Pogue-style!” At that, Hugo glances at JJ, who raises his eyebrows. </p><p>He nudges Pope. “<em> Pogue-style </em>,” He says gleefully.</p><p>“Jesus,” Pope sighs. </p><p>Heyward looks up from his wrapping. Fixes a narrow stare on JJ. “If you corrupt my grandson with that crap---”</p><p>“I believe I was about his age when I got into my first fight,” He rubs at his chin. “Let’s see, when was this? ‘09?” </p><p>Heyward raises a roll of packing tape towards him in threat. “I will tape your dry lips shut.” </p><p>“Are you kidding? This is like a rite of passage,” He starts to grin wider at the fact that Hugo’s perked up, is listening intently, eyes wide. </p><p>Pope mutters under his breath, like he’s just realized. “We got into some crazy stuff back then.” </p><p>“Some of y’all still get up to some shit,” Heyward casts a wary glance at JJ. </p><p>“Hey, I’ve shaped-up!” He protests. He has a mortgage, that has to count for something. </p><p>“Nah, you’re still a little bastard.” Heyward says. He waves his tape roll towards the rest of the room. “Back to it.”</p><p>They turn back towards the storm. There are boxes everywhere, scattered across the floor, stacked against the walls, open like flowers on top of the counters. A couple of Pope’s cousins, Marcus and Levi, familiar faces from around the Cut, volunteers move slowly through the room. People are organizing clothes and cans. Marcus is having an argument with some wrapping tape and paper. Red and yellow string lights hang from the ceiling. JJ can feel warm air on his face, and it’s a little euphoric. </p><p>His eyes find the large, blocky poster on the far wall on instinct. <em> Heyward’s Holiday Drive </em>. If there’s one legacy people on the Cut are known for, it’s not going down without a fight. </p><p>Despite the cheesy name, JJ’s missed it. When he was a kid, it felt like charity. He never agreed to be on the giving or receiving end of the event, he’d sit behind the counter and grumble about the noise under his breath and mock the bright gift wrap and can-do attitudes, until Heyward caught him smoking inside and chased him out. Couldn’t stand the idea of feeling like he was pitied or making someone else feel that way. Over the years, though, he’s watched it with a little less sharpness. Gathered up a few cans and shit he hadn’t looked at in a couple months and snuck to the donation bin in the back late at night. Never left a note. Right now, it’s one of the things he’s glad for, like surfing and shifts at the auto shop. It makes him feel busy. Distracted. </p><p>They’re tired, all of them---have been at it for five days now, but it’s familiar, somehow. They’ve fallen into a routine. </p><p>They pile in in the morning and have coffee around the counter. Start organizing the donations first, because they won’t do it if they let the day drag on. JJ and Pope and Pope’s cousins bring in the boxes. Sort through it all. Yvonne and Julian and the volunteers wrap, because they can’t be trusted with it. Heyward’s at the helm, Hugo trails him with a clipboard that looks too big in his hands, checks things off and makes notes when Heyward tells him to but mostly doodles DNA strands and snowmen and portraits of JJ that are unflattering and entirely inaccurate. </p><p>JJ and Pope eye the last empty stool on the side of the counter closest to them. They shove towards it, JJ jabs him in his side, reaches it first. Pope grumbles, goes to grab another stool stacked against the wall. </p><p>JJ digs around in the box next to Heyward, Julian asks them to pass him some tape. Pope and Hugo start sorting through another box. </p><p>They’ve settled into a slightly dysfunctional rhythm when Yvonne comes in through the back, holding her own clipboard. She’s got her hair twisted up in a scarf on top of her head, a pair of purple reading glasses over her eyes. </p><p>She stops a few feet from the counter, scratches at the sleeve of her hoodie. </p><p>“We’re still short,” She reminds Heyward. </p><p>Heyward’s gaze is fixed on a half-wrapped box, his brows have pulled together in concentration. “It’ll work itself out. Always does.”</p><p>Even JJ has to smirk at that. Yvonne puts her hands on her hips, and he gets the feeling this is a familiar, annual argument. “It’s not gonna stop being a problem just because you decided it is.”</p><p>“We could always make some more rounds on Figure Eight,” Pope suggests, pulling Hugo’s hands away from a loose pair of scissors. “I’m sure they’ve got stuff lying around. And this kind of thing makes them feel good.”</p><p>Something scratches against the inside of JJ’s chest. He shrugs. </p><p>“That’s not a bad idea,” Yvonne says anyway, fixes her gaze on him and Pope, and suddenly JJ’s sitting on the couch in her living room, three of them being called to make themselves useful. “There’s extra flyers on the table over there. Take some bags, just in case.”</p><p>He feels prickly, like the goosebumps on his arms are shoving against each other, whatever tune is always playing in his ear is teetering, notes collapsing in on themselves, falling like dominos. </p><p>Dutifully, he and Pope take up the flyers and head for the door. Yvonne trails behind them, as if she doesn’t trust they won’t run off just like the boys from Nags Head. </p><p>They stop outside, he takes in the ice lining some of the plastic chairs in the sitting area, the cold water trickling from the roof. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to savor. </p><p>A draft brushes the backs of his thighs. Mrs. Heyward clicks a tongue at his knees, pink and raw. The battle between her and his attachment to shorts no matter what time of year it is has been waging almost as long as the Pogue/Kook conflict. This chill picks at him, December wind is always the nastiest, digs at his knuckles and the bridge of his nose. He’s got a secret admirer, an invisible menace trying to draw something out of him, waiting for him to snap. Sometimes it wins. Sometimes it doesn’t.</p><p>Mrs. Heyward smooths a hand over her clipboard. “Head up to Corolla. Lotta wine-drunk golf moms lookin’ to feel less ashamed about cheating on their husbands.”</p><p>“Damn,” JJ says. </p><p>“Mr. Breck, of course. Enough white guilt to fill an entire box” She says. “Try Mrs. Willis. I used to babysit her son. That woman belongs on <em> Hoarders. </em> She could win the damn thing.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s a competition,” Pope rubs his hands together. </p><p>The wind swipes through JJ’s hair, prickles his scalp. His cheeks burn a little. </p><p>Yvonne tucks her clipboard under her arm. She’s less inhibited and also less aware. “You could, you know. Go by The Lookout. I’m sure there’s stuff lying around. Could make someone really happy.”</p><p>He doesn’t miss the look Pope gives his mom, as if she’d poked a beehive.</p><p>“Wouldn’t that be nice?” He knows his smile is a little too wide but he can’t seem to stop it. “Get the rest of the gang to help out.”</p><p>Willie’s overheard. Sets the box he’s carrying down against the wall for a second, joins the group of loiterers. </p><p>“You’re going to <em> Miss Carrera’s? </em>” The kid raises his eyebrows like he’s said he’s going to Miss Crain’s.</p><p>He shrugs at him. Decides to humor it.  “What if I was?”</p><p>“I don’t know, man. You hear shit.” The vulgarity’s strange coming from someone with a baby face like his, but that’s the Cut, spitting and biting and cursing. The boy frowns, a small creasing edging between his brows. “Didn’t y’all used to be friends?”</p><p>Something like that. “What’ve you heard?” He chuckles, more in his throat than his chest. </p><p>The kid folds his arms, his eyes glint as he realizes he’s got them on his hook. That doesn’t happen often for kids from the Cut. “I don’t know, man. Just stuff. Like she’s not…” He taps a finger to his temple. “You know.” </p><p>Something far down and forgotten jerks. “She’s fine.” </p><p>The kid smirks, reminds him of himself. “She never comes outta there.” </p><p>“She’s fine,” He realizes he’s snapped, changes his tone. “Kiara’s fine.” </p><p>Pope glances at him warily. “We should uh, we should head out. Before it gets too late.”</p><p>The kid heads back towards his box. Yvonne looks at the clipboard again. </p><p>She stops him, just as they’re about to walk off. A hand to his elbow, featherlight, and he feels like he’s about to combust. His knees burn. </p><p>“Just think about it.” </p><p>Right, because he’s about to go ask Kiara Carrera to throw them a bone. That’s going to happen. “Yeah. Uh, we’ll see.”</p><p>“Don’t forget to pass out the flyers!” Yvonne turns back towards the shop. </p><p>“Ma, we got it,” Pope grumbles, pulls at the hem of his sweater. </p><p>“Mmhmm,” She says, and the look on her face makes JJ feel like a boy. </p><p>Pope takes his dad’s truck, JJ takes his own. Sliding into the silver pickup is second nature, the scratched leather scraping the back of his thighs humbles him, a deep inhale of the stench of cigarettes that’s been there since he got it is all he needs to start his day. He rests his left wrist over the steering wheel lazily, slots his keys into the ignition. </p><p>He salutes Pope as he cuts him off and pulls out first, gets the finger in return. Turns the heater up, lets the warm air wrap around him. </p><p>In Corolla, the women open their doors in silk bathrobes. Lean against their doorways, pretend they’re not shivering. They don’t offer up anything on his list and when he hands them a crumpled flyer and doesn’t let their fingers brush his, the mahogany doors close in his face.</p><p>Mr. Breck doesn’t answer his door. JJ glances in the window---the dude lives in a hippie bungalow, it’s hard not to be curious---and finds a tiny chihuahua staring back at him. It starts growling, rams itself against the glass. </p><p>Turns out Mrs.Willis’s done some spring cleaning. All she has to offer is a couple of cans of spinach, and a solemn look on her face that irritates him. “Take care of yourself, dear.” </p><p>He’s sitting on the side of the road near Kitty Hawk when his last shred of dignity decides to leave him. The hot air feels stale, unnoticeable. </p><p>He folds and unfolds one of the flyers. Knows he has to pull out before he starts to sink into the snow.</p><p>He doesn’t even know what he’d say. If she’d even answer the door. It’s a little thrilling.</p><p> </p><p>JJ’s never been to The Lookout. </p><p>He knows where it is, in theory. </p><p>The polished wooden beach house is hard to miss---crystallized windows flicker in the sunlight, chalk-white walls blend in with the snow. It all works together so seamlessly he can’t drag his eyes away, it irritates him. Like the reference on a puzzle box, distant and finished. </p><p>There’s also the fucked-up fact that he drives by it everyday. </p><p>He couldn’t explain it to himself if he tried. But every evening, when the sun is going down and the world starts to get quieter, he takes the long way home. He looks up at it’s silhouette, and he wonders, what if? When he sees the yellow porch light, he goes soft for a moment. JJ misses feeling soft. </p><p>He tries to relax his fingers against the steering wheel. Pulls onto one of the back roads, takes the scenic route.</p><p>The Outer Banks used to be a map. Now, it’s more like a compass. JJ in the deep of the Cut, some things never change. Pope in Norfolk, as far up as he could get, Kiara on the coast, a memory. Sarah Cameron, in Raleigh. </p><p>Kiara’s a pipe dream. Sarah Cameron’s a fever dream. The Kook princess had slummed with them for exactly five months and then she’d started paying for real therapy on the mainland. She was there and then she wasn’t. When he thinks back on her, tossing golden hair over her shoulder anytime JB was around and pulling at it next to the rest of them, on the steps of the porch, after all of it, it’s so ridiculous he’s not even sure it actually happened. And then he catches her eye at the country club---he’s a full adult and still bussing tables. She nods in acknowledgement and he wants nothing more than to be eating fried shrimp with her on the couch in the Chateau again, talking about everything and nothing. He wonders if she ever thinks about any of it.</p><p>It’s when the ocean comes into view that he starts to feel like he’s sinking. This is a mistake. He pulls over in the parking lot at Rixon’s, cuts the engine off completely. </p><p>It takes several deep breaths before he stops feeling like his throat is closing up. He grips the steering wheel so hard it hurts. He can see the outline of it, all the way up the beach, a speck of snow he has to squint at to make sure it’s really there. </p><p>He lets whatever this adrenaline is itch at him, focuses on the feeling and rides the high. Starts the engine again. </p><p>The Lookout is different up close. It’s almost see-through, smooth wood and a flat lawn and perfect lines. It’s only one story, but he feels like he has to crane his neck to see all of it. The structure looms over him, makes him feel cornered. </p><p>He parks his truck outside the gate, tilted against the road. Gets out with nothing more than a flyer, tucked into his back pocket. The air’s colder, clearer. His boots crunch against the ice. He knows she can probably see him through one of the windows as he’s walking up the drive. He doesn’t think about that too hard. </p><p>A thread in his stomach’s tightening as he gets to the bottom of the porch. He grabs the railing, just to see if it’ll break, but it’s sturdy, harsh. His boots nearly sink through the wooden steps. He’s entered the Twilight Zone, and he’s found himself standing on Kiara Carrera’s porch. </p><p>The door is a deep brown, solid and impossible. Fiberglass, twisted and patterned, offers a view over the top, but it’s hard to make anything out and he doesn’t really try to. The handle’s silver and long, curled like the ‘K’ in her name on the top of all of her school assignments. He sat behind her in English for a semester. He’s really good at pretending he’s not looking at anything. He’d catch the leadened swirls, the hesitation at the end. The open-circle ‘i.’ The knocker’s also silver, shiny and exaggerated, and he thinks it might burn him if he tries it. </p><p>He taps his knuckles against the frame a couple times, and the wood still rubs them raw. That’s the moment that everything stops, the air is frozen, JJ’s still.</p><p>There’s no answer for several agonizing, relieving beats. After a while, he sighs, steps back. At least he can say he tried, maybe he’ll stop feeling so guilty about taking the long way so he doesn’t have to pass by the Wreck.</p><p>There’s a creak. He stills again. Forces himself to turn around slowly, delay the inevitable.</p><p>It’s a small island. They’ve run into each other more than a few times over the years, or, rather, been in each other’s peripherals. Little flickers in the corners, <em> I think I left something in the car </em> , <em> I’m gonna be late </em> , <em> He looks busy---I’ll catch him later </em>. He thought when he saw her up close again, was in her space, he’d notice details. He’d be able to get a real look at the golden highlights at the tips of her curls, the small vine tattoo on her forearm, the little scar between her brow he’s not sure where she got. </p><p>This is nothing like that. It’s too much, all at once. He’s not quick enough. </p><p>Kiara Carrera opens the door completely and he wasn’t expecting that. She has a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her curls are in a loose bun on top of her head. Her brown eyes widen slightly, or maybe he’s imagining it. A beat passes, where nothing exists.</p><p>“Well shit,” She says. She leans against the door frame. Her voice is a little raw, but just as warm. Something collapses in him. The lines around her eyes and mouth are sharper than he remembers. “What am I, sixteen again?” </p><p>He feels like a kid at a school dance, staring at her from across the room. The pendant hanging from her neck glints in the late afternoon sun. He thinks maybe it’s her star sign. He's not sure what the move is. Whether he should hug her. </p><p>“So you do still live here,” He settles on.</p><p>She frowns slightly. She’s thinner, he realizes. “Yeah.” </p><p>Whatever game he’s sliding into, he isn’t able to stop it. "I wasn't sure. I mean...the mailbox is scratched out and --"</p><p>“What are you doing here?” It’s a little satisfying, that she’s the one that breaks first. </p><p>He doesn’t know how to answer that, not really. He pulls the flyer out, unfolds it. “Heyward’s.”</p><p>She takes it, barely glances at it. Looks at him again.</p><p>“It’s going down,” He says lamely. Shifts on his feet. “They wanna put in a hotel.”</p><p>She nods, something behind her eyes looks off to him.</p><p>“You knew,” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to point it out. </p><p>This is the kind of shit old Kiara would’ve been all over. This Kiara shrugs at him, and he feels defeated. </p><p>“I heard.” </p><p>He feels a draft coming from somewhere, something pricks at the pads of his fingertips. “So do you uh, do you have anything?” His insides are screaming, shoving at each other, because if there’s one thing JJ Maybank doesn’t do, despite all the holiday bullshit and the pretense that he’s changed, it’s charity. Especially not from her.</p><p>Kiara shrugs noncommittally, glances behind her. “Probably.” She starts to turn, leaves the door open. He doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. </p><p>She takes a step, turns back. A couple baby curls hug her neck, her eyes are different, maybe her lashes are longer, or maybe he’s in a daze. “Are you just gonna stand there and freeze your ass off?”</p><p>The inside of The Lookout is nothing like the outside. It reminds him of the garden outside his childhood home, vibrant and deserted. After Georgia, there’d been no one to keep the leaves green. He’s stepped into the front room, there’s a sleek, ghostly kitchen to his right and a living room  that looks like a museum to his left, beyond that, a massive window and a terrace. He can see the sea, and it comforts him for a moment. </p><p>The beige walls are covered in abstract paintings, he can’t tell what any of it’s supposed to be. Except the one over the fireplace, that one’s easy. A dolphin, over watercolor waves. There’s a plant on every surface, none of the leaves are brown or curling in on themselves---Kiara Carrera still cares about some things. The rug underneath the couches and the coffee table doesn’t look like it belongs. It’s tightly woven, a whole world in the thread. The kind of thing that’d be picked up at a flea market, spontaneous and unreadable. </p><p>When it comes to her, it’s always been too much, all the time. The house rises up around him, it’s like he’s entered one of those escape rooms they have on the mainland. They’d put their money together (a four-way, even split, no matter how much Kiara insisted), done a pirate-themed one for Pope’s birthday one year. He’d known it was a game, bragged he was gonna figure it out before them. He’d known it was a game, rammed his fists against the door until one of the employees let him out. He’d sat against the wall outside, stiff wood making his back ache, shut his eyes hard until he remembered what breathing was supposed to feel like. She’d been there, leaned her head back, not looked at him once, until he finally started speaking again. Pope and John B were across the street, getting them ice cream. Pope’s head had been on a swivel, he couldn’t stop glancing back at them. John B’d held his dutifully, even when blue cream dripped down his wrist. He’d known it was a game.</p><p>He wants nothing more than to back up, to turn around, get the fuck out, because all of Kiara is jutting out and looming over him. He feels suffocated, like he’s shrunk down and turned up inside her. Crowding in with her organs, her bones, all of her, raw and overwhelming. He’s seeing her up close for the first time in years, inside-out.</p><p>Kiara pads across the wood, he realizes she’s barefoot. “Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea?” </p><p>
  <em> She never comes outta there. </em>
</p><p>It’s like he’s being grinded through the gears of the Pogue. The weight is racking and unbearable and he feels himself stutter. The whole time. The whole time, and this was going on. This is the product of rescheduled plans and idiotically-placed boundaries and they let it happen. They all let it happen. </p><p>He doesn’t say any of that. He tries a smile. “Water’s fine.” </p><p>She snorts, reaches for a glass. She sets the water on the island, maybe they’re both a little afraid of each other. Says on a breeze, “I don’t have a lot of cans, but you’re welcome to look through,” She gestures towards the pantry, starts towards the hall. He watches her open a closet door, reaching for stuff he can’t see. He crosses the room. He doesn’t go for the water.</p><p>“Short again this year?” She asks.</p><p>“Some things never change.” Green beans and squash. He blinks at the metal cans, reaches for them. </p><p>“Lotta surfboards?”</p><p>“More than last year,” He confirms. </p><p>“How is everyone?” She asks, like he’s supposed to know. </p><p>“Keepin’ it together,” He feels like he’s in that tiny office at Kildare High, a narrow desk across from his counselor, a tall man who would fold his hands on the desk every time he went to speak.</p><p>He hears something fall. A beat passes. Kiara rummages around. “How’ve you been? Taking care of yourself?” </p><p>“Busy.”</p><p>It is purposely casual, an escape from all they’ve been through. She talks like he’s an old acquaintance, a childhood anecdote. He’s grateful for it. </p><p>She asks him to grab a trash bag from under her sink. He holds it open as she piles random things in. There’s more cans in this closet. Old blankets, way too neat, stacked on the shelves. She throws in a couple of shirts she gets out of another room down the hallway. With a horrible jolt he realizes the last one she rolls up and stuffs inside---a grey sweatshirt with the Kildare Island logo on it---is his. He searches her face for a moment, but she’s already turning away, reaching for something else. </p><p>They head back to the front room. Kiara pauses abruptly, head turned towards the window and the terrace. “Fuck,” She says. “Would you look at that?”</p><p>The sun’s going down, light fading, but JJ can feel what’s happening. Wind beats against the glass, he can see snow swirling under the porchlight. He drops the bag. </p><p>The thing about storms in the Outer Banks, of any kind, is that you have to take your chance at the first sign. Once it’s started, you’re fucked. Kiara reaches for a sleek black remote, turns on the television. He pulls out his phone.</p><p>They watch the colors across the map, the pink---<em> winter storm warning </em> , the orange--- <em> blizzard warning. </em>He almost laughs. The island hasn’t had a snowstorm in three years. </p><p>“If I leave now, I can still make it back before it goes red,” He decides. Reaches for the bag again. </p><p>The way Kiara’s looking at him is long and unnerving. “You hate storms.”</p><p>“It’ll be fine.” He heads out the front, has the collar of his shirt pulled up over his nose. Kiara leans on the porch railing, seemingly unaffected. </p><p>“I liked being sixteen,” She says when he gets a few steps down the drive. He glances back at her. </p><p>She’s grinning down at him. The shawl hangs loosely off of one shoulder. She’s not even shivering. </p><p>“I didn’t.”</p><p>Her grin widens. </p><p>“Bye, Kiara.”</p><p> </p><p>He makes it maybe five more steps before he’s turning back. Jogging up the steps, back towards the warmth, towards Kiara, still leaning against the wood smugly. She slides away, reaches to open the door. He follows her back inside. </p><p>When he goes into her house, he feels like he’s entering the dream again but it’s twisted, he can’t tell if it’s a nightmare or not, can’t stop it from happening to him.</p><p>The bag sits in the center of the front room. He leaves Pope a voicemail, when he’s sitting on her couch. The plush leather feels too comforting, too easy. He feels strange.</p><p>He can feel the wind beyond the walls, but it’s out of reach now, it can’t plow him over.  </p><p>“Christmas Eve’s tomorrow,” He says conversationally, though none of them need to be reminded. </p><p>Kiara’s sitting in an armchair that makes her look smaller than she is. She wraps a loose thread on her shawl around her finger, doesn’t look at him. “Yeah.”</p><p>A question slips out, now that he’s still again, and he’s realized he’s exhausted, dried out. He pretends he’s saying it into the silence, instead of to her. “Do you think he would’ve been there, for Heyward’s?”</p><p>Kiara swallows, looks up. “I don’t think he would’ve ever left.”</p><p>She gives him the guest room. Pulls her hair out of its bun, like she’s just as exhausted. “If you need anything, I’m down the hall.”</p><p>The room’s about as big as his entire living room. Beige walls, a Marley poster over the bed. He smirks at it. Doesn’t even kick off his boots, falls onto the mattress on his stomach. Ends up on his back later, tossing and turning. He’s in the first and last place he wants to be.</p><p>He listens to the wind.</p><p>*</p><p>
  <b> <em>1</em> </b>
</p><p>When it’s Winter, the Outer Banks feels like the coldest place in the world. Everyone passes through like ghosts, bonfires and open shop doors reminding them of the summer sun. The island complains about the heat when it’s there and complains twice as much when it’s gone. Ever since the storm, JJ’s moved through his days in a daze, evasive and half-existing. Today, he likes the cold. </p><p>He takes the long way to work just so he can smell the fried fish coming from The Wreck. The Island doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. He smiles at Miss Anna, tips his cap towards the fishermen nursing steaming cups by the marina. He feels like he’s on the edge of something, in a coming of age film. He comes to the docks just to look at the view, grey water almost still. Hands in his pockets, lips towards his ears. One of the dockers stops short, gives him a once-over. None of them say anything. He waves at Luce, compliments Hank on his polished, new boots. On the way to his morning shift, he walks by Kildare Park, a happy accident. Topper’s standing by a booth for the Kildare NHS, yells, “Maybank! If you need a handout, all you gotta do is ask!”</p><p>He stops. Smiles. “You know what, man? I would love one.” </p><p> He cuts his finger on a broken windshield at the auto shop and still, he feels better than he has in a long time. His boss is sitting behind the counter, reading an old copy of <em> The Charlotte Post </em>. He’s not looking at the pages, though, he’s peering over the top at JJ, eyes narrowed in a way that makes him look cross-eyed. He watches him like that for most of his shift, until he has to take a call in the yard behind the shop, pacing on top of yellow grass and yelling about misplaced parts.</p><p>When JJ’s at Rixon’s, against a piece of driftwood with Scarlet, he looks at the sea. She’s lying against him, back to his chest, cheap hairspray in his lungs. He cranes his neck towards the water, trying to smell salt. He wishes he’d brought a jacket. </p><p>“What the hell are you on right now?” She cranes her head back to look at him, raises her penciled eyebrows. </p><p>For some reason, that makes him smile wider. He’s melty, pulled out at the edges. “Just getting in the holiday spirit.”</p><p>“It’s creepy,” She shifts against him.</p><p>When he has to go to the country club---he’s gotten a job as a busser, waiting on Kooks day in and day out is a nightmare, but the pay’s good, and nothing can shake him today---he presses a smacking kiss to her cheek, scrambles up. </p><p>When he’s walking back towards the parking lot, he smirks at himself. He’s never kissed her in the daylight before.</p><p>He can feel the island watching him, he realizes that no one’s confronted him because they probably think he’s finally lost it. He doesn’t have any cards left to play. He’s a little kid again, and he thinks he has a right to be, after all of it. To feel good.</p><p>There’s a spring in his step when he comes up the porch of the Chateau, he may even skip a little.</p><p>Kiara’s in the kitchen, in a red apron that he’s pretty sure used to be Big John’s, bent over a cutting board. “You need to calm your tits,” She says without even having to look at him. “People are gonna know something’s up.” </p><p>“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” He laughs, watches her turn finally to give him one of her signature looks. “We’re allowed to look happy.”</p><p>“You, enjoying the holidays?” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Suspicious as fuck.”</p><p>They’re different now, he and Kie, since the storm. The jabs, the push-and-pull that’s tethered them to each other as long as they’ve known each other, it’s less biting, more playful. Like after all they’ve lost, there’s less to think about. Less to repress. He twirls loose strands of her hair around his fingers, presses a hand to her back when they walk into places---he needs it more than she does, but she welcomes it. Ruffles his hair when he gets too serious, plays with his rings when no one else is around. </p><p>He has his arms behind his head, looks at the ceiling instead of at her. “You think they’re really coming today?”</p><p>There’s a pause, but she’s still chopping. “What?” </p><p>“We haven’t heard anything in weeks. I know they said they couldn’t call again, or whatever, but…” What he’s not saying hangs between them.</p><p>He hears her set down the knife. “It’s Christmas Eve. They’ll be here.”</p><p>Words have been shot back and forth across broken lines for months now. When the first one came through, a muffled, deep, unmistakable <em> hello, </em>JJ’d dropped his phone. He didn’t normally answer numbers he didn’t recognize. He’d put them on speaker, yelled for Kiara, who was in John B’s room, taking a nap, needing someone else to confirm it was real. Ended up skidding down the hall, through the door, practically jumping onto the bed and scaring the shit out of her. </p><p>She’d jerked, he remembers, her curls had been frizzy and bunched. “What the hell” -- She’d started to say, and then she’d heard it.</p><p><em> “JJ? JJ, you still there?” </em>His phone had a crack down the screen now. He stared at it, listened to the line fizz and crackle. </p><p>A choked gasp escaped Kiara. She was watery, raw, could hardly get the words out. He could feel hot tears threatening to fall. The line hissed.</p><p>“Yeah man,” He couldn’t look anywhere but at her, something fond and collapsing welling in his chest, behind his eyes. She stared right back at him, later, she’d tell him she thought she was still dreaming. “We’re here.” </p><p>Pope had gotten there in five minutes flat, even though he lived fifteen minutes away. They’d clung to each other for hours, the past few months welling  up around them and floating away.</p><p>Every week it was a blocked number, always at midnight, always to JJ. John B and Sarah talked in code before, but now? There was too much to try to understand. He had to learn a whole new language.</p><p>The last one had been about a month ago. It was bittersweet, because they had it all figured out. On Christmas Eve, they were coming home.</p><p> </p><p>Kiara’s done the Chateau up like a scrapyard wonderland. Garlands out of dried citrus, string lights inside beer bottles, boxes wrapped in old newspapers she’d found in one of the junk drawers. She makes candles out of old mason jars and pill bottles. Cuts up unused CDs, breaks scratched-up pairs of sunglasses to decorate ornaments with. Reusable this, recyclable that, there’s some tinsel on the ceiling he’s certain a whale would choke on. For all of her fussing, he has to admit the clothing hanger snowflake on the far wall is kinda badass. He likes seeing her like this, solid and pressing and bright.</p><p>The remaining Pogues soak up the day. They try to remember what celebrating is like. Pope and Kiara devote hours to a roast. They push at each other’s hands when they season it, <em> that’s too much, it needs more salt, my family owns a restaurant.  </em></p><p>They pull out the stupid surfing Santa figurine they’d found at a flea market years ago. Kiara has a batch of peppermint bark sitting on top of the stove, Sarah’s favorite tradition. Five stockings line the doorway. </p><p>Kiara has her phone attached to a speaker. He’s never liked Christmas music. When most of the cooking is done, he dances with her in the living room.</p><p>She’d given him one of his gifts early---a fancy-ass Padron cigar in a decorated wooden box. At the look of surprise he’d given her, she’d said, “We’re celebrating. What the hell.” He’s on the porch with it, watching the road. For the first time today, everything is still. </p><p>The twinkling lights hanging from the roof are red and blue and green and they remind him of the Cat’s Ass. He stares at them for several moments, tries to track the pattern they follow and remember that feeling of the churning water, the glowing air. When he finally looks away, he spends the next several minutes blinking them from his vision. </p><p>There’s some mistletoe hanging from the top of one of the beams that they’d found buried in a closet. He lets himself wonder what Kiara would do if they caught each other under it, because he’s never felt this hopeful in his life, and something buried five feet is trying to crawl its way out of his chest at last. He wants to blow his little life’s worth on lottery tickets and go sky-diving and start thinking more than five minutes ahead of himself. </p><p>The screen door creaks. Pope comes out with a green elf hat over his head, brandishing a small, glass orb. “Look what I found.”</p><p>Smoke comes out of his nose. He grins. “Holy shit.”</p><p>He crosses the porch towards Pope, who holds the ornament up to the light. A couple of green snowmen are painted on the outside of it, too-close, smudged dots for eyes and bodies stacked big to little instead of little to big. Inside is a small picture of John B in the first grade, rocking a bob and missing both of his front teeth. </p><p>“Where was it?” He rubs at his jaw. </p><p>“In one of his old tackle boxes,” Pope smiles smugly. “He really thought we’d never find it.” </p><p>When they come back in, Kiara stands from the couch, shaking her head. “I thought he’d thrown it away.”</p><p>Pope does a little bow, hangs it near the top of the tree. It’s rough and scrappy, like always. They go to the tree farm over in Nags Head, because none of them (especially Kiara) will settle for something artificial. Yellow light flickers across it, a strange mirage of ornaments covers almost every space. Kiara’s wrapped it in soda cap chains. This might be their best one yet. </p><p>They start to get a little restless as the night wears on. When he offers Pope a hit off of his cigar, his fingers twitch, his mind won’t leave him alone. Somehow, they coerce him into dancing. After a while, Kie switches the music off and starts flipping through the channels on the nearly-broken T.V. The select button doesn’t work unless you really press down on it.</p><p>She comes across a cartoon about a snowman and he squints beside her. “The fuck is this?”</p><p>She pauses. Turns to look at him. “What do you mean, what is this?”</p><p>“Dude,” Pope says. “It’s a classic.”</p><p>“We didn’t exactly have Christmas traditions in the Maybank house,” He mumbles, not sure he really wants to be heard.</p><p>Pope chews his lip, JJ can see something working behind his eyes. </p><p>Kiara pats his thigh, her hand lingers for longer than what could be considered normal. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”</p><p>None of them commit to it, it kind of blares in the background as they deal with the rest of the food, a dull comfort. The night drags on, soon, they make the decision lay covers over all of it. </p><p>Eventually he thinks <em> what the hell, </em>gravitates back towards it. It’s less about what’s actually happening, more about the way it makes him feel. The kids are wide-eyed, bold, alive. Eventually, he gets up and props the screen door open, so he can see the drive. </p><p>When he snaps at Pope and Kiara because they won’t stop pacing, they go out to the porch with a joint. When the wind picks up, he pulls his hoodie tighter around him. The children speak in naive, bright tones, the sky is pink, the ground’s purple, but he’s not paying attention. The night has been pulling at him slowly, it’s about to rip him open. It’s too late. It’s too dark. They’re not coming. He’ll get a call, or he won’t. They’re not coming. </p><p>After a while, the cold becomes too much and they come back inside. Pope goes to shut the door, he stops him. They settle on the couch again beside him, the snowman’s running. Tree doodles slip past him rapidly in the background. No one wants to be the one to say something. </p><p>The back door creaks. His eyes flick towards the sound on instinct, he flinches without being able to help it. When he centers on the source of the noise, something snaps. Becomes twisted, locked. Because there’s Sarah Cameron, coming through the back door like a phantom, wearing a black hoodie similar to his, wrong, so very wrong. When she comes into the light, she isn’t who she was before, she isn’t grinning or running or anything at all. Her face is red, not just from the cold. Kiara and Pope are standing, he registers that much, rushing towards her, but she’s looking at <em> him </em>. Then---right then is when he knows. </p><p>The words are barely audible, he’ll never forget what he sees in her eyes.</p><p>
  <em> “I’m sorry.”  </em>
</p><p>Immediately, his gaze snaps back towards the screen, a lifeline. The lines are simple, understandable, everything stands out but it’s soothing, not clashing, his mind forgets he is a bag of bones now, sitting on this old, ruined couch, unmoored. He’s not at the end, he’s at the beginning.</p><p>They used to watch a lot of cartoons. Not whatever this is, but stuff that feels like this, gleaming and digestible. Even later into their teens, when they were high off their asses in the early hours of the morning, they’d settled on the couch, flipped through the channels until they heard exaggerated tones, caught glimpses of color. </p><p>John B’d always been on his left, in the armchair. He’d turned to him once, lungs full of smoke, said, “That’s some powerful shit right there.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up man,” He’d laughed. Now, he kind of gets it.</p><p>His best friend’s about to come through the door, push at his shoulder, shake him out of this trance. He always has---not as easily as Kiara, but there’s a reason JJ hasn’t sunk yet. Strange, sincere, emotional clarity, words of wisdom that don’t make any logical sense but still manage to hit where they need to. John B’s full of shit, and he’s not coming home. </p><p>He tries to remember what was in the corners of his gaze in that moment, in the same way he tries to remember signs his mom didn’t want to be a mother, the shape of the stains on the carpet that he would try to catch when his father had him up against a wall, twitching smiles from his friends when he’d lit them all on fire and found a way to douse them. That feeling he gets that something is watching him and if he stands still enough and keeps his eyes forward, he can catch it.</p><p>Later, he will vaguely recall Pope and Kiara, collapsing and hazy, like a photograph fully developing. He’ll be able to place Pope’s relentless questions, the rising wreckage in his voice, the stuttering. He’ll hear Kiara in his dreams, sobs wrecking through her, vomit on the wooden floor, uneven breaths. Eventually the movie will end. He’ll stay in this first stage for a long time. </p><p>When he looks back on this, he’ll think, maybe they were all right. Maybe he’s always on the edge of something, he can never just be. With his dad, he used to cling to anything he could to hold himself together. He’s never let himself process anything, and it seems, he’s not going to start today. </p><p>Being at the bottom of the ocean is different than he’d imagined it’d be. The light of the screen warms his face, he mumbles something, on a broken laugh. “<em>Guys, it’s Santa!” </em></p><p>*</p><p>When JJ wakes up in Kiara Carrera’s guest room, he laughs at the ceiling. It’s not even like he’s still dreaming---he’s in another plane of existence. He has that sinking feeling he got the one time he tried acid (the worst idea, for someone like him). That moment when his eyes were sinking into his skull---he’d been staring at the ceiling of his bedroom---and he’d realized he no longer knew what was real. Had no frame of reference. He’d been able to make out the Nirvana posters on his wall, those were familiar, but they looked distorted and cartoonish. For all he knows, this is a parallel dimension. </p><p>The Lookout is covered in grey light, like everything is after a storm. He rubs his eyes as he comes out into the living room, realizes he didn’t take his boots off last night, which is probably a little uncivil. He finds Kiara on the back porch, leaning against the railing in a different shawl. </p><p>“Morning dear,” He drawls, winter air biting at his arms. He stops short. “Fuck.”</p><p>They have a clear view of the beach. Blunt and smooth, snow blanketing sand, the ocean’s always unnerving when it’s cold. </p><p>“Well that’s a fuckin’ view.” </p><p>Kiara’s breath billows out in front of her. “You should see it in the summer.”</p><p>Her hair’s in that same bun, or maybe, she’s redone it. Somehow, it looks better in the morning. </p><p>He comes to lean a couple feet beside her. He doesn’t know where to start. It’s probably better to cut his losses now. Even this---this is too far. He can already feel himself sliding into old habits, wanting to ask her if she’s cold. </p><p>“So uh, thanks,” He’s a kid, tripping over himself. “For letting me stay, I mean. I know that probably wasn’t ideal.’</p><p>“What, not letting you get hypothermia?” She smirks. He thinks maybe she’s shivering slightly. “Hardest decision of my life.” </p><p>The silence that falls over them is tearing, and also strangely comfortable. </p><p>After a moment, she side-eyes him. “I’m sorry, I have to ask. Have you really held onto that same god damn pair of cargo shorts all these years?” </p><p>“They’re breezy,” He gives in. They chuckle, stilted and breathy. He can’t take this, whatever this is. “I uh...I think I’m gonna go ahead and get going. Pope’s...you know, we’ve still got a lot of deliveries. We’re still short.”</p><p>She doesn’t ask him if he wants to stay for breakfast, for coffee, even. Straight and cut, he’s always liked that about her. </p><p>“By all means,” She says, eyes trained on the snow. </p><p>“It’s good to see you,” He offers, feeling guilty, for reasons he will never understand. She let this happen, not the other way around. Right?</p><p>“Yeah,” She says, maybe she sounds a little wounded, or maybe he just wants her to. “It’s Christmas Eve,” She adds, an afterthought. </p><p>“Merry Christmas.”</p><p>He grabs the sack full of scraps and bones she’d offered up, heads out through the front door. The handle doesn’t burn when he shuts it behind him, it hardly even feels cold. </p><p>He comes down the porch, down the path, to the gate. It creaks when he pushes on it, as if protesting. </p><p>“Jesus Christ.” His eyes settle on his truck, leaning against the road. A part of him dies at the sight of it--- buried halfway in tightly packed snow. It’s all over the windshield, all in the bed. That was a brand new paint job. He could call Pope. He steps out into the street, glances up and down. The ice goes on as far as he can see, thick and clumped. He’d bet money that it’s probably been blocked off. </p><p>He kicks at the snow with his boot. Great. Fuckin’ fantastic. He pulls out his phone, clicks the contact without really having to look at it, second nature even after all the distance. </p><p>“JJ Maybank. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”</p><p>“Sarah Cameron,” He sighs. Then, “You’ll never guess where I am right now.” </p><p>“Oh my god. Are you outside?” He hears rustling, like she’s moving around. “Fuck, you could’ve given a girl a---”</p><p>“I’m at The Lookout.”</p><p>There’s a pause. Another rustle. “What?”</p><p>“I’m…’m at Kiara’s,” He doesn’t know why he called her. Why the <em> fuck </em> did he call her?</p><p>“Okay,” Something’s shifted, she says it like he’s a cornered animal. “Okay. Just catching up?”</p><p>They both chuckle as soon as it leaves her mouth. “What happened?”</p><p>He stares at his buried truck. “Do you remember when we went to all those boujee shops on the mainland?”</p><p>Sarah smirks. "When I tried to show you a good time and took you to all of the places you'd never been and you got pissed and left me in<em> J.Crew </em>?”</p><p>"Why did you...what made you decide to come find me? You could've just let me fuck off, I'd been an asshole to you all day. You could've just left it alone." </p><p>Sarah takes a moment before she speaks again. "We were all hurting. A lot, back then. I'm not saying it's stopped, or it'll ever stop, but back then it was fresh. I didn't wanna be alone. I didn't think you did, either. Not really."</p><p>He mulls over it. Digs his fingers into his thigh.</p><p>The line shakes a little. "I didn't wanna give up on you. Any of you. I didn't...I was afraid of what would happen."</p><p>He swallows. "I didn't wanna try on those ugly-ass loafers," He tries.</p><p>"Merry Christmas, JJ."</p><p>When they hang up, he doesn't feel better. Sarah’s always had this ease about her. Years can pass, and it’s like you just spoke to her yesterday. That’s the part that digs at him. When he sees Pope, when he catches even a glimpse of Kiara around, he doesn’t know how to be. When he calls Sarah, out of the blue, after all these years, her voice is a breeze. She breezed through all of them, and it didn’t matter, it never did. </p><p>He calls Pope, can hardly hear him over the bustle of the shop. </p><p>“So you’re alive,” Pope begins. </p><p>“You could sound a little more relieved.”</p><p>“Where are you?”</p><p>He sighs. “Kiara’s. I’m snowed in.”</p><p>There’s a pause. “Of course this would happen to you,” Pope muses, which is very helpful. “Jesus.” </p><p>“It’s the ol’ Maybank luck.”</p><p>“I can come get you.”</p><p>“Nah, I’m on the back road, remember? It’s all fucked,” He steps out, glances up the road, “It’s easier if I just stay, wait it out. If she’ll let me.”</p><p>Another pause. “You sure?”</p><p>No. “Yeah,” He toes at the ice. “Y’all gonna be okay without my charm and expertise?” </p><p>Pope snorts. “I think we’ll manage.” </p><p>“Bye, Bubba,” The nickname is bitter on his mouth, not his to give.</p><p>The walk of shame back up to The Lookout is made worse by the fact that he can see Kiara, sitting on the porch, watching him calmly. </p><p>He comes to a stop a few feet from her, hands in his pockets. Studies her face. </p><p>She has a cigarette between her teeth. “Welcome back,” She says, lighting it. </p><p>He works his lip. “You don’t look surprised.”</p><p>“There was a storm last night, JJ,” She takes it in her fingers, inhales. Releases it slowly, eyes closed.</p><p>“I get it if---”</p><p>“You can have the guest room,” She says. “Until it all melts, if you want.” Why is she being so cool about this? He doesn’t understand her. Maybe he never did. </p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>Her brow twitches at that. “Yeah.” </p><p>They’re locked for a beat. “No funny business, though,” He smirks at her. </p><p>“I will try to keep my hands to myself,” She deadpans, offers him the cigarette. </p><p>He shakes his head. “Ten months clean.”</p><p>“Fuck,” She stands, tugs at her shawl. “Congrats.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s out of alcohol and the back road’s a shitshow, so they walk through the sludge to the rest stop up the road. </p><p>“You’re a grown-ass man, and still, you just love to stress me out,” She says before they leave. “At least take a fucking jacket.” </p><p>He shrugs. “I can’t even feel it.”</p><p>The ice along the side of the road is a slip and slide. She grabs his arm when her feet try to come out from under her, it’s all jolts, every time, but after a while he gets used to it. They don’t talk much, but it’s a smoothed, comfortable silence. It reminds him of when they’d sit by the marsh together for hours, when everything was a little too much, and they’d watch the sun go down over the saltgrass. Snow falls, but it’s softer, aftermath.</p><p><em> The Hut </em>is a one-story, blocky building with peeling, blue walls and an ‘OPEN’ sign that’s lights don’t work. The sign is in stretched letters, surrounded by a couple of palm trees. There’s an RV in the farthest parking spot, other than that, the tiny lot is empty. A couple of fishermen and truckers linger on the concrete, breath visible from the cold or the cigarettes they’re smoking. </p><p>There’s a little jingle at the door. He holds it at the edge, when she slips through behind him, the woman behind the register grins. “Carrera.”</p><p>“Hey Beck,” Kiara smiles. “Truckers?”</p><p>“Two on back-order,” Beck chuckles as Kiara does a little dance in celebration that he has trouble watching. “I’m playing hard to get. Tryna make them work for it.”</p><p>He follows her down to the far aisle, where the cheap stuff is stacked tightly. It’s all the same---red and white wine, there’s some beer on the back wall. Kiara taps her fingers along the bottles absentmindedly. </p><p>“So one of each, right?” She glances at him.</p><p>He smirks. “I don’t drink that fruity shit.”</p><p>“Really?” She turns to face him fully. “Because for some reason I recall you specifically requesting it whenever I raided my mom’s cabinet.” </p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“I remember it, babe,” She smirks. “I remember it all.” </p><p>He slides past her, a hand to her shoulder, moves towards the beer. She grabs one of each anyway. </p><p>“Champagne?” He stops short on their way back to the front. </p><p>“Champagne.” Kiara’s flipping through a pamphlet about wildlife in the area. </p><p>They walk back through the cold, plastic bags swinging at their sides. They barely slip, until about halfway through, when he almost goes tumbling and his bag swings and almost tears. Kiara’s right there, wraps her free hand around his waist, and she’s smaller than him but she’s quick, it’s all needs to catch himself. Her hand lingers for a couple moments, even after they’ve started walking again. </p><p>He switches his bags to one hand, reaches for his pocket knife. </p><p>“What the hell are you doing?” Kiara asks as he starts fiddling with the cork of the champagne bottle. “JJ, stop!”</p><p>The cork shoots into the sky like a bullet. Foam gushes down his arm, sprays the side of her shawl. “Fuck,” He says, lifting the lip to his mouth. “Sorry.” </p><p>She scoffs, looking at her shawl. Shoves his shoulder. “Asshole. Give me that.”</p><p>He grins, relinquishes it easily, watches her tip it into her mouth, take a long gulp. She sighs, wipes at her mouth when she hands it back to him. </p><p>By the time they get back, the bottle is half empty. He sets the bags down, collapses onto the leather couch in the living room with it. </p><p>Kiara drops her bags onto the island. “You want anything?”</p><p>He shakes the bottle in the air. </p><p>“I’m going for a walk,” She says. She fixes him with a look. “Don’t burn the house down.”</p><p>“Settin’ the bar low, Carrera.”</p><p>“You have a lot of confidence for a guy who once tried to microwave nothing.”</p><p>“I stand by that decision,” When her look hangs on him, he adds, “Pope would too. We wanted to know what would happen.” </p><p>“Your arsonist dreams had better be over.” The door clicks shut. </p><p>Then he’s alone. What unnerves him is the fact that he can’t hear anything. Not a fan or a dishwasher or a dryer. The room is slick and edged, he remembers, on some level, he’s in enemy territory. </p><p>He drains the bottle. Decides to look around. The paintings aren’t as distant. </p><p>Pictures line the mantle above the fireplace. Memories in the corners of his vision that aren’t his, he’d avoided them, till now. The first shoots straight through him---twenty-year old Kiara, in front of a waterfall. She’s smiling at whoever was taking it, her curls are loose down her back. She’s a little older, at a concert, eyes glowing from the lense of the camera, it’s blurry and off-kilter and so her. There’s a larger frame, he can’t tell how old she is. She’s in a green bikini, her hair in a loose bun, holding a baby turtle up to the camera. He’d watched her life unravel across a screen, a loose string of Instagram posts that dwindled out after she came home and had nothing let for them. He wants a time machine, because this Kiara he can reason with. The person walking out to the beach now is a stranger. </p><p>The pictures on the end table on the other side of the room are miles away. She’s in a cocktail dress, on a bridge, sparkling lights behind her. It’s angled towards her cleavage, she’s looking up at the camera, mischievous twinkle he’s only seen over the years in photos, holding up a glass of something bubbly. She’s in a plaid blazer, sitting in a gleaming restaurant across from a girl with gelled blonde hair. She’s in a group shot, right here, in this living room, in front of the mantle, surrounded by Kooks, and she looks right at home. He recognizes maybe two of them. </p><p>He goes into the kitchen when he starts to get restless. Wandering hand syndrome, he would call it. Nosy bitch syndrome, she would call it. There’s not much to work with in the pantry. The entire top shelf is devoted to tea boxes. He finds a loaf of whole-wheat bread, grimaces as he takes it out. There’s a jar of red sauce in her fridge. He dunks a finger in it, it’s sweet, pungent. </p><p>He’s started making a sandwich when Kiara comes back in, cool air tickling the back of his neck until she shuts the door behind her. She toes off her ankle boots, stops in the entryway. “What the fuck are you doing?” </p><p>“Just makin’ some lunch,” He dunks a chunk of salsa onto the bread. </p><p>In an instant, she’s crossed the room, takes the edge of his sleeve, pulls him away. “Jesus Christ, that is hopeless,” She looks at his effort grimly. “Good to see some things haven’t changed.”</p><p>He slides onto the stool at the island easily, watches her toss the bread into the trash with a small smile. He’s always liked watching her cook. Something about seeing her in her element like that, her hair tucked up and out of her face, hands everywhere at once, movements controlled, and also spontaneous. He used to go up to the Wreck under the pretense of boredom. Whenever her dad wasn’t around, which wasn’t often, he’d sit on a stool in the kitchen, just watch her at the helm of it all. She always surprises him, not that he knows a lot about cooking to begin with----but he knows a lot about Kiara cooking, and she never does the same thing twice. Never seasons something with the same things, never handles a pot the same way, always plays with the sauce until it’s something they’ve never tasted before. </p><p>She fries up an omelet for each of them in a stainless steel pan with olive oil that sizzles in tiny, dancing bubbles. His eyes follow her hands across the room, until she pulls some hot sauce out of the fridge, raises her eyebrows in question. </p><p>He shakes his head, and she grins, “Right, right.”</p><p>They sit on the leather couch, JJ with his feet on the rug, Kiara with her legs folded up against the side. The egg is crisp, comfy, he tries not to show it. Thinks she can tell anyway, from the way she bites her lip. She flips through the channels on the flat screen T.V. hanging on the wall, asks if he has a request.</p><p>They settle on a shitty sitcom that is too close to both of them, neither of them are really watching. When they abandon their plates, she pulls out a joint, asks if it’ll bother him.</p><p>He holds out his hand. Less question, more habit. </p><p>“Thought you didn’t smoke.”</p><p>He smiles wryly. “I don't do cigarettes anymore. That doesn't mean I've cut off all of my vices."</p><p>She leans across the couch, holds out the joint, they don’t let their fingers brush when he takes it. </p><p>“It’s not your cousin’s shit,” She says as he gets his lighter out. “But it’ll get the job done.”</p><p>They pass it back and forth as the T.V. blares. It takes a few hits, but then they’re a lot more friendly. Kiara’s got it, blows a puff up towards the ceiling, laughs, “Oh my god.”</p><p>His eyes have almost fallen closed, he glances at her lazily. “What?”</p><p>She looks like she’s trying to hold back more laughter. “Do you remember when we marathoned the last season of this during finals?”</p><p>Senior year had been a trip. They’d gone in at the lowest place they’d ever been in their lives, but somehow, they’d started laughing again. “When we drank all those Monsters and tricked ourselves into believing we were gonna study?”</p><p>“Pope studied,” She says. “Well, at first.” </p><p>“We watched like five a night. I don’t know how we passed anything.”</p><p>She giggles. “Do you remember---at the end---when you brought all that vodka and we didn’t sleep?”</p><p>He remembers playing a short-lived game of Jenga and shouting at the blurry laptop screen until the final credits rolled and streaking across the yard, jumping off the dock. </p><p>He rubs at his face. “Was the Callum thing in the last episode?”</p><p>“Second-to-last,” Kiara says. “After all that, he cheated on her. Just like that.”</p><p>“We knew he was a prick from the beginning,” He says. “I can’t believe it lasted that long. I can’t believe it was her aunt.”</p><p>“They put us through three seasons of that! I would’ve rather seen more of the psychic twins.” Kiara shakes her head. “It is kinda fucked though, how they went through all that just to come up with nothing. They literally learned nothing.” </p><p>“We learned something, though,” He says. “Watch the aunt.” </p><p>“Can I tell you a secret?” She looks at him through her eyelashes, he’s a little dazed. “Sometimes I feel like I’m like that. The whole travel the world, get away from it all bullshit. What do I actually have to show for it?”</p><p>He knows whatever he says next, she’ll remember. Wishes he wasn’t high right now. “It wasn’t all for nothing. I mean, you’ve seen more shit than most people here. And you met Reed then, right? You don’t regret that.”</p><p>“I did,” She confirms, glances at the screen again. Chuckles slightly. “Didn’t last long.”</p><p>He shrugs. “I was surprised it didn’t work out. He was kinda riding your dick. And you seemed pretty into him, too.”</p><p>She doesn’t miss a beat, he tries to convince himself that that’s the part of it that stings. “People drift apart. It’s not that deep.”</p><p>He folds his arms, allows the smile to settle in him, like armor. “Seems like he drifted pretty far.”</p><p>Her eyes widen slightly, grin etching wider. “Oh fuck off.”</p><p>He remembers hearing about Kiara’s fling in Peru that became a full-time travel companion for a couple weeks, until he ditched her for a touring circus headed as far away from where she was going as possible. Vague details from a mutual friend-of-a-friend who barely knew either of them.</p><p>“I don’t think he drifted far enough,” She says, changes the channel. </p><p>He wishes he were angry, feels the way he did so often when he was young, the way he still feels sometimes when he has an empty Sunday. His knuckles ache, something in his stomach pulls at him. He wants to set something on fire or punch a Kook or find a Touron. He laughs at corny holiday commercials, shoots broken anecdotes back and forth as they pass the joint, about people they know and used to know. Something tries to jumble and rearrange itself in his mind, because he doesn’t have a casual bone in his body. Neither does she. </p><p>Slowly, the years start to fall into place. The show stops becoming background noise. He’s not angry, he realizes. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s hollow. </p><p>*</p><p>
  <b>2</b>
</p><p>There are a lot of things JJ Maybank wants to ask Kiara Carrera. When they walk past golf courses and the Kook boys are in their puffer jackets and the girls are in fur trims. When they’re at Rixon’s and the Pogues grip their mugs a little too tightly. When, by chance, they pass Sarah Cameron, on the stiff marsh or in the street. When Kiara’s gaze hardens more than it ever has towards anyone. When she avoids discussing it, like she did when Toby Reyes didn’t give her a valentine in the second grade. When they joke about things she wasn’t there for or a certain name is mentioned, when the silence hangs a little. The grass at Kildare Park is green, even in the winter. Does she wish it was greener? </p><p>They’re at the Wreck a couple weeks before Christmas---nothing short of a miracle---in the corner booth, their booth. The place’s done up in lights and music blares from a speaker near the wall. He hasn’t had leftover catfish in a long time. John B sits beside him, scarfing down fries so quickly JJ thinks he might choke on them. He can stand to stop looking so fuckin’ eager, but after all that’s happened, JJ can’t blame him. Pope’s across, reading, so unbothered it irks him. The warmth coming from the kitchen is claustrophobic, the leather bench sticks to his thighs. Kiara’s gone to get them <em> hot chocolate </em> , and if she keeps buttering them up, he might change his mind about the whole forgiveness and <em> Peace on Earth </em> thing.</p><p>Ever since her latest ‘fall from grace,’ Kiara’s been different. It was like when she came down this time, she hit the ground harder than ever before. What’s fucking him up isn’t what happened. It’s not that in November, when he was out night fishing with John B, he witnessed Sarah Cameron’s birthday across a trail of orchestrated and blurry Instagram posts, and he didn’t catch a glimpse of dark curls. It’s not that exactly a week later---that was when Kiara decided to wait for them on the porch of the Chateau with a couple bags of quesadillas and a joint that practically fell apart in his hands. It’s not just the radio-silence for about a year, it’s about what’s been lost since. They still haven’t said his name yet, it’s always <em> after what happened </em> or <em> you know </em> or <em> the situation. </em></p><p>What’s getting to him, as much as he hates to admit it, is the person she’s become. He’d always wondered, if Big John ever went, what would become of them. If someone would try to step into something they shouldn’t, if they’d be able to keep each other afloat. Every time she presses a hand to the back of John B’s neck, every time she nudges Pope’s foot with her own, says t<em>alk to me </em>, like she’s their shrink, he wants to light himself on fire.</p><p>She comes out with the mugs, one under each arm, one in each hand, sets them on the table with the practiced ease of someone who was raised within these four walls. Takes her seat beside John B, asks, “So Nags Head tomorrow night?”</p><p>JJ’s eyes move from his mug towards her, he tries to catch her eye, to see if they can still communicate things without having to say anything. </p><p>Pope’s not as subtle. He doesn’t look up from his book. “Why would we…” He trails off, looks up finally. “Oh.” </p><p>He wants to kick him under the table. He glances at Kiara again, who’s blowing at her mug absentmindedly, pointedly not looking at John B, who’s staring at her. Something’s turning itself over behind his eyes.</p><p>JJ becomes really interested in the scratches on the table. The one on the corner closest to him, that had been his trademark when he was thirteen. He left them everywhere, on his desks at school, on the windowsill of the Chateau, in the sand at Rixon’s. He traces the outline with his finger, as if it’s the most unique thing in the world. On the wall, just above the bench, is ‘POGUELYFE,’ in sharpie. There’s a vague mask of paint over it, not enough to conceal it completely. They’d been sitting in this same booth one afternoon, he can’t remember when. She’d been the one to trace it into the wall, told him to make sure no one was watching. She’d also been the one to cover it up, a thin layer of beige that made him smirk at her the next time they were sat there. </p><p>She still hasn’t met JB’s eyes. Sips her hot chocolate, looks at him, as if that’s a safer bet. </p><p>John B chews at his lip. “Okay.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> None of that fake shit. We’re gonna be sweeping it off the floor.  </em>
</p><p>He can hear Big John’s voice on a loop in his head, practically see him walking in front of them as they arrive at the tree farm in Nags Head. He would say the same thing every year. <em> It’s not about size, boys. You want somethin’ with somethin’ about it, a little grit.  </em></p><p>He remembers Kiara asking, the first time, “How do we know if it’s got grit?”</p><p>
  <em> If it looks like it’ll last.  </em>
</p><p>They come to the front, nod at Dennis, sitting in a lawn chair behind a table. They look at the trees, wide and unapologetic, reminding him of the weeds in the marsh and the pinecone air freshener that had lasted in the Twinkie for a week and the camping trips Big John used to take them on. </p><p>Kiara adjusts her beanie, sighs. “Let’s pick out a tree carcass.” </p><p>It takes exactly ten minutes for John B to call them over to one that is shorter than the rest, on the end of an aisle. It’s an ugly little fucker, but whatever Big John was always talking about, he seems to think it’s got it. JJ tilts his head to the side, trying to figure out if it’s crooked or he is. </p><p>Pope tugs at a small branch and it comes clean off. </p><p>“This the one?” Kiara says with a small smile. It doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. </p><p>“This is it,” John B’s smile is dopey, distant. </p><p>JJ's on her other side, waiting for it to come. He’s freezing and she’s been looking at it a little too long and he wants a fight, anything to warm them up. John B and Pope have gone to get Dennis. “What?” He starts, under his breath. “Not good enough for you?”</p><p>She doesn’t look at him immediately, but she goes a little stiff. Says sharply, against the cold air, “If you’re pissed, get on with it. It’s been weeks. I can’t keep doing this halfway...on-and-off bullshit.” </p><p>He shakes his head, flicks his thumb against his lighter. Doesn’t know how long he’s been holding it. </p><p>“You got quiet this past year,” She smirks emptily. Finally, she looks at him, straight-on. “If you have something to say, say it.” </p><p>He looks at her slowly. Flicks once, twice. “I just think you need to fuck off with the John B thing.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” </p><p>He watches Dennis at the table, gesturing widely. Watches John B laugh, leaning on Pope. “We let you back in. That doesn’t mean he needs you rubbing up on him and trying to make it all okay.”</p><p>“The hell does that mean?”</p><p>“It’s all too fresh. Ease back in.”</p><p>There’s fire building, slowly. “I’m still his best friend. I’m allowed to be there for him.” </p><p>He crosses his arms. “So be there for him. Just not---not like this. All the special treatment, the <em> benefits </em>. That shit might’ve worked with Sarah Cameron, but it’s different around here.”</p><p>“God,” She laughs, shakes her head. “I knew you weren’t really cool. I knew you were gonna be a fucking child about this.” </p><p>He doesn’t let it nail him, doesn’t let it twist. “Have you tried talking to him about it?”</p><p>“Have <em> you </em> ?” Her eyes narrow. “Jesus Christ. What would we even say? Dude, it sucks your dad fucking ditched. I’m sorry the most important person in your life is gone and we have literally nothing to go on? <em> I’m sorry he’s probably dead </em>?” </p><p>She’s the first to say the word. He wasn’t expecting it. His throat feels clamped, raw. “You...you just need to chill out for a while. It’s exhausting.”</p><p>“You used to like it,” She says. She’s spiraling, they both are, he can feel it. She swallows, brows pinched together. “I get it. I fucked this up,” She gestures between them, towards John B and Pope, vaguely. “But say what you mean. Don’t come at me for stupid shit.” </p><p>They come back with Dennis, load the sproutling into the back of the truck. He doesn’t catch her gaze again the rest of the afternoon. He’s a little grateful for it. </p><p> </p><p>They’re good at avoiding each other, when they want to be. Until John B sits up in his hammock a couple nights later, looks over at him. “I wanna go see the lights.”</p><p>Any other year he would have spoken up, because this is probably the cheesiest tradition they’d picked up. They end up piled into Heyward’s truck---well, Pope drives and John B beats him to the passenger seat. Of course, he ends up in the bed with Kiara, one of Ms.Yvonne’s quilts folded up between them.</p><p>The ride out to the edge of Kitty Hawk is bumpy, like always. They used to take the Twinkie, he and Kie’d sit across from each other in the back, kinda like they are now, watch it all go by for a couple sappy minutes. End up playing <em> Temple Run </em> for most of it. He can feel her foot knocking against his, telling him to look at whatever they’d come to, can hear her chuckle at the <em> 12 Days of Christmas </em>arrangement. Now, her legs are folded up, she’s on her phone. She’s the first to reach for the quilt, drapes it over her knees, without looking up.</p><p>The Kildare Light Show happens every year. They keep them up for about a month, day in and day out. It’s another point of convergence, people pull up in convertibles and in Chevy trucks, cars behind cars behind cars, he remembers the time John B’d accidentally bumped a Lamborghini in front of them and their lives had flashed before their eyes. He remembers the one-sided screaming match that had taken place once Big John came to get them, the Kook guy’s sharpness, Big John’s quiet sternness. </p><p>The pathway is less crowded than usual. John B pulls through like a grandmother, almost slowing to a stop as they get to each corner, he can only imagine the comments Pope’s having to suffer through, and then he thinks about the comments John B’s probably suffering through in return, and he doesn’t feel as bad. </p><p>Music moves through the night air. They go under a tunnel of blues and whites, a senseless pattern, it’s a little trippy. </p><p>He forgets for a moment, chuckles at a display of a couple reindeer in a hot tub and glances at her, like an idiot. She’s still looking at her phone. </p><p>They’re halfway down when he breaks through whatever’s sitting between them. “Hey, uh...about the other day…”</p><p>“It’s fine,” She doesn’t look up, because this is how they always do shit like this. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>They’re in the last stretch when she finally looks at him. She chews at her nails, but her hand’s shaking.</p><p>“I need…” She trails off. Sets her phone down. “I need to tell you something. Well, not you specifically---but I need to tell someone, and…” She takes a shuddering breath, and with it, whatever it was he was feeling leaves him and finds its place in the cold. He deflates immediately, because Kiara keeps herself bottled up most of the time, almost as much as he does, and if she’s letting a crack show, it’s serious. </p><p>He tries not to let anything show on his face. Looks at her easily, leans back so she doesn’t feel cornered. “You okay, Kie?” He hasn’t called her that since she got back.</p><p>She seems to realize, settles her gaze onto his. “I...I’m…fuck,” She laughs, shaky and quiet.<em> “Fuck.” </em></p><p>He’s never seen her like this, never seen her this unsteady, stuttering, it’s like she can’t even get the words out. Whatever’s holding her back, she’s at the end of it. The truck rolls on, they pass a sign, <em> GOD BLESS THE USA </em>. Her breath comes out in tiny, cold puffs. He smiles, even as his insides are threatening to spill out of him. “You can tell us anything. I know...I know we like to talk shit, and give each other a hard time, but...you can. There’s nothing you could say that would make us….that would make me...anything.”</p><p>They’re caught in this space together for an agonizing minute. He keeps his features calm, even as his fingers itch to reach for her.</p><p>It comes out so quietly he can barely hear it over the music.<em> Last Christmas </em> soothes over them, makes the night less clear. “I think…”</p><p>He waits, jaw clenching slightly. He has no idea where this is going. </p><p>
  <em> “I think I might be pregnant.”  </em>
</p><p>In an instant, he can’t remember what was digging at him. She acts like she doesn’t need him to hold her hand, but every time he does, that night when she’s crying on the pullout in the Chateau, a day later after she takes a test to confirm it, she squeezes back. He likes being her harbor again, likes being the one she leans on, looks to in crowded rooms when everything gets a little too loud. She doesn’t need him, she never has, but he likes imagining that she might. </p><p>He comes to understand, vaguely, that this is the reason she looks at Sarah Cameron so gratingly, this is why the Kook Princess pulled so far away she fell flat on her face. He can’t bring himself to press, knows even admitting vulnerability was wrenching enough. </p><p>They’re at the Kildare Holiday Festival when she tells him she’s not keeping it. It’s chaos, every year, and for that part, he’s always loved it. The booths have lamp-lit centers, like stars. The music coats the air, people move through it in a haze, adults and children laughing, and that’s the part that always unsettled him. Everything felt too focused, too unconditional, and naturally, he felt like an outsider because of it. He would tense when he saw kids dragging their parents towards Santa Claus, when couples huddled together by the live music. But with the Pogues? He makes fun of all of it, swipes candy canes from unsuspecting booths, but he hangs off of them, remembers that this, everything around them, is home. </p><p>This year, the Pogues stick together so tightly they may as well be one person. He pushes Pope into the fake snow pit, catches Kiara’s lips turning upwards as he scrambles to get up, slipping and sliding against the ice. She comes up beside him, tries to catch him off guard and push him in, but he’s ready, his hands come to her arms and he spins them around. She clings to him, dangling over the side. “JJ! I swear to god---”</p><p>The way her grip on him tightens feels good. When he pulls her upright, she swats at his shoulder, but there’s no bite to it. </p><p>They get apple cider from a small booth on the corner of an aisle. When the PTO moms aren’t looking, he tips his flask into each of the boys’ cups, winks at Kiara when they bring them to their lips. The three of them splutter at the same time, Pope’s coughing, Kiara’s face twists in fake disgust. </p><p>John B gags. “Shit.”</p><p>“It gets better,” He says, even though he’s never actually tried this before. </p><p>It doesn’t get better. They walk around dizzily, practically waltzing through the paths, barely noticing the volunteers glaring at them. They almost run into a kid, a couple by the snow-men building contest, a lamp post. </p><p>They’re headed towards the craft area when they pass by a tall guy in a navy coat. Something happens, something he expects to happen. Kiara’s gaze is icy, solid, straight past him. </p><p>“Kie.” The guy’s eyes bore into her, he shuffles around her as she mumbles a noncommittal “Hey.” Max Sampson, a third-homer who lives up in Corolla, class president at the Kook Academy. JJ has other names for him---pretentious fuck, for one---though he would never voice them out loud. He’s never thought twice about Max Sampson. Well, until last year. If he remembers correctly, it was exactly around this time. </p><p>He wasn’t supposed to be there. Had been sent into town by John B because they were out of beer and you couldn’t do Christmas at the Chateau without beer. He’d gotten in and out of the liquor store quickly, for once, he hadn’t been thinking about her absence. </p><p>He’d seen her across the street, in the square. Someone had put up a fake tree, covered in green lights, and she’d been glowing, in a tan overcoat and a tall pair of boots. He’d thought about it, he can’t lie to himself. What would happen if he crossed the street, asked if she wanted to join them. What she would do. He hadn’t gotten the chance to find out.</p><p>She’d been with Max, then. He hadn’t looked away, like he always does when he sees her flirting with Tourons or swatting at John B’s shoulder or leaning on Pope while she laughs. He’d watched the scene like it was one of those shitty Hallmark movies, pretended she was someone else. He had that hollow feeling in him, the kind where it’s cold and empty outside and you think about where you were the last time it was like this, and you think about how things are changing, and mostly, you think about yourself. Or at least an attractive, offbeat version of yourself that sticks around until the snow melts. </p><p>He remembers smiling for a moment, like they were strangers and he was more rosy than he is. He felt like he was sinking through the earth. Let himself stay there for a moment longer, let the warm air coming from the shop melt him a little. </p><p>She’d kissed him, and JJ hates the way it struck through him, ice picking deep and hitting bone, like invisible hands had come up behind him and shoved him face-first into the snow. The jolt that goes through him as they pass Sampson is twisted and childish, he knows that. He’s still a kid, he guesses. In little, fucked-up ways.</p><p>They get to the craft station and Kiara says she’s going to the restroom. Disappears into the crowd, he watches her black beanie like a beacon. John B wants to make a paper snowflake, so he and Pope begrudgingly sit down, reach for a cup full of scissors. John B’s is asymmetrical and clumsy, but the effort’s there. Pope’s take the longest, he uses a ruler and everything, but it comes out the best. JJ fucks his, twice. After a while, he presses a hand to JB’s shoulder, glances at Pope. “I’m gonna go check on her.”</p><p>He finds Kiara sitting against the side of the restrooms, her legs out in front of her. She doesn’t look up as he settles onto the cold grass beside her. The event is set out before them like a painting, bright and distant. He can hear someone laughing. Smell caramel popcorn and turkey legs and funnel cake. Warmth coming from the open door nearby. </p><p>A couple of kids chase each other across the snow, a boy’s glove comes off and drops to the snow, when she says, clear as day, “I’m not keeping it.” </p><p>They watch a girl start to roll a snowball, persistent, pushing up her fleece hat when it falls into her eyes. A couple other kids move to help. He’s not good at it---any of it---with her. “Are you okay?”</p><p>He feels her shift beside him. “I will be.”</p><p>He wants to reach for her, feel that jolt he’s chased all his life, so he doesn’t have to feel hollow. </p><p>They watch the movie scene.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One of the pictures on the end table has been taunting him for the past hour. He’d been able to distract himself for a while, tapped his fingers against the arm of the couch, focused on the sympathetic quality the images on the screen were taking on. Even focused on Kiara, on the verge of falling asleep, shawl wrapped tightly and tucked under her chin. Eventually, when the high isn’t enough to console him, he glances over at the picture lazily. </p><p>The group stands like figures in a display set, arms around each other stiffly, like they didn’t need to be. He lets his eyes drag over each of them slowly. Grey blazers. Chandelier earrings. The guy with gel for hair, the girl with more necklace than neck. Kiara, in the middle, always the host, always the center. He’d glanced across bonfires for years and she’d been there, a focal point. </p><p>She bites before he does. Shifts on the couch. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing, just…” He scratches his chin. “Seems pretty tame, compared to…”</p><p>She chuckles. “Compared to the shit I used to do?”</p><p>“Compared to what I’ve heard about.” </p><p>“Didn’t think you were the gossiping type.” </p><p>“You know how stuff gets passed around here. It’s hard not to wonder.”</p><p>Kiara sighs, leans her head back, looking at him still. “What do you wanna know?”</p><p>“The goat in the pool thing,” He starts, because it’s small, and it’s been tugging at him ever since he fixed Heidi Thornton’s jeep and he caught an earful while she was on the phone. “Did that really happen?”</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” She says. Then, “Some of it. It couldn’t actually swim. I had to rescue it. Graham almost had to give it mouth-to-mouth.”</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>“Fuck indeed,” She says. “Honestly, though, that was a fluke. It’s usually more of a get-together. A few people, talking about music and life.”</p><p>“So pretentious shit?” </p><p>“Sometimes. Sometimes we just got drunk. Passed the time.”</p><p>“Do you miss it?”</p><p>“Yeah,” She shrugs a shoulder, glances at the T.V. again. Then, “I miss the Boneyard more.” </p><p>“Miss being the keg stand queen?”</p><p>“I think I’d pull something now.”</p><p>He smirks at her, even though she’s right, so would he. Then, he remembers. “What about the champagne baths?”</p><p>She doesn’t respond immediately, plays with one of her curls. </p><p>He’s stuck on the motion, follows it in a trance. “Please tell me that one’s true.”</p><p>“I’m telling you, it wasn’t that exciting.”</p><p>“Surely you got up to <em> some </em>shit.”</p><p>“We mostly played poker.” </p><p>He’s pushed into a moment he didn’t remember until now. Cross-legged on the floor of the Chateau at three in the morning, barely twelve years old. She’d been across from him, her curls in a loose braid over her shoulder, rogue strands tucked behind her ears. Scowled at him when he tried to give her pointers. <em> Stop, I’ve got it. </em>When he tried to show her the poker face he’d picked up from watching his dad’s buddies sitting around a white folding table, cigarettes hanging from their lips, she’d laughed at him. He didn’t tell her she was at a disadvantage, because he always knew what she was thinking. They’d had nothing to put forward but their pride. </p><p>“Don’t look at me like that,” Kiara says, shuffling the cards on top of the coffee table. “I’ve gotten better.”</p><p>They’re settled on either side of the table. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Kiara redoes her bun, raises her chin at him. They don’t put anything forward, that was never the point. </p><p>“We used to use sand dollars and beer caps as chips,” She tells him as she deals out the cards. Then, quieter, “You would’ve loved that.” </p><p>The first game is the longest. Whatever he used to be able to read, it’s altered, murky. He gets a Joker twice, stares at the jester hat, the exaggerated smile. </p><p>She wins the first round, he wins the second. Halfway through the third, his ends up with an eight of spades, a queen of diamonds, an ace of hearts. He reads them like a prophecy, like they’ll tell him what’s coming. Where he’s supposed to go from here.</p><p>They’re at a standstill. Two games each, the fifth round is slower, maybe it’s the wine sitting beside them. He folds and unfolds the corner of one of his cards. “Why all this?”</p><p>She doesn’t respond immediately, but she doesn’t bristle either. He tries to convince himself he wouldn’t have gone there if he were more sober. “I used to come up here all the time as a kid.” </p><p>He remembers that, remembers the complaints she’d send their group chat the whole time. “I used to hate it. The forty-five minute drive, the fucking iron gate, the plastic-covered furniture. We would eat at this long, weird table---not the one in there, this one was worse, if you can imagine. And I...I was always so alone. I know I was with my parents, but...I don’t know. Being up here always made me feel singled out. Reminded me of how I was different from y’all.”</p><p>He tries to let it settle, but he has to know. “What happened?”</p><p>“I just realized what path I was on. It was never gonna go my way. Unless I did what they wanted. Or at least, I let them think that,” She says. “If I’m up here, and it looks all bright and shiny, and I get out the antique lamp and the stupid blue bird painting when my mom comes up, no one questions me.”</p><p>He looks up. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell them to fuck off?”</p><p>“You say that, but you don’t know what you’d do if you were in it. It’s exhausting.”</p><p>“That’s fucked-up,” He says. “All of it. I’m sorry.” </p><p>The game drags on. Her eyes trail up from her cards. “Stop looking at me like that.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“It worked out. I can do what I want. The view isn’t bad, either.”</p><p>“No,” He agrees. “Not bad at all.” </p><p>They make a deep dish pizza for dinner. She swats his hands away from everything, bumps his hip with hers, gets him to taste tomato sauce. In a strange, impossible way, he feels a little like they’re in the Chateau. </p><p>They sit across from each other at the long, narrow table in the dining room. His foot taps against the floor, she doesn’t say anything. He imagines that this is familiar, that this is a memory. What it would be like if this was his place, across from her, if they’d exchange horror stories from work and talk about what the sea looked like that day. If he lived here, the place would be a mess. If he lived here, he doesn’t know who he’d be. </p><p>He doesn’t know when the switch flipped---some tiny moment, in the past few hours. Now his gaze darts across everything, he fights to keep his hands still.</p><p>Despite all of the ways she’s different, she reminds him of himself. He didn’t notice how many shadows there were in The Lookout until the sun went down. Didn’t realize the light was a mirage. The circles under her eyes mirror his, and they reach for the wine in turn, not wanting to be outdone. They wander through the house like ghosts, scratch their nails across the smooth walls, mess with the record player she hasn’t touched in years. They play another round of poker, she grips the cards more tightly, he almost drops his. He comes to realize details he doesn’t want to. </p><p>He never thought he'd see the day, but Kiara has a cigarette problem. He finds them everywhere, roaches in coffee mugs and flower pots and sinks. There's an ashtray in every room, an empty carton on most ledges. One night, he catches her over the fire from the stovetop because she can't find her lighter. He takes pity on her, offers up his. She grabs it without hesitation, because old habits die hard, rubs her thumb over where he's scratched his initials. Her fingers pause over something else.</p><p>Fuck. <em> Fuck fuck fuck </em>. He'd forgotten about that.</p><p>She looks up at him, almost pensively. Holds the lighter up towards him, and he doesn't have to look at it, he already knows what's there. <em> KC. </em></p><p>"Figured you use it so often --- you used to use it so often, it was kinda yours too."</p><p>She looks at it again thoughtfully. Lights up. Pockets it.</p><p>Normally, JJ doesn't like to dwell on things. For the rest of that night, he's lying in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. Connecting dots in the plaster into strings of beads and constellations and trash littered across shifting sand.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He slips in and out of sleep a couple times, the sheets around him are too pliant, too convenient. He slips too far, sees things he hasn’t seen in weeks. Shadows rolling in and over themselves, a white beacon casting a glimpse into the darkness, dousing everything. </p><p>Water washing and reaching for him like tendrils, grabbing him by his ankles. It’s not about him, it’s about what he sees beyond it. Dead weight, a pale ghost of the person he knew. He screams at him. Begs to take his place.</p><p>
  <em> JJ. </em>
</p><p>He touches his wrist, but it’s bare, cold. </p><p>
  <em>JJ.</em>
</p><p>Smoke disappears from sight and loose curls slip through his fingertips.</p><p>
  <em>JJ.</em>
</p><p>It’s fucking freezing in the guest room, he’s been swept under a current, waiting for it to stop pulling him down. His breath comes out hot and weighted, more exhale than inhale. He tries to grip the sheets, anchor himself, but they’re silky, see-through. </p><p>“JJ.”</p><p>Finding the source of the noise is second nature, as unconscious as twirling a curl around a fingertip or a hand pressed to a back. </p><p>She’s on the edge of the bed in a dark robe, her curls spilling down her shoulders. “JJ, fuck.” He registers her hand is on the covers in front of her, by his leg, but she doesn’t scoot forward. “Fuck. You’re okay. Look at me, you’re okay.”</p><p>He needs something to grab hold of, to keep him steady so he doesn’t rip himself apart. His fingers slide against the silk. “Kie.”</p><p>She moves immediately, shuffles forward until she’s by his side. Her hand twitches towards his, but she pulls back, keeps it in her lap. It doesn’t matter, because he’s reaching for her, pulls her down beside him, circles his arms around her, grips at the back of her robe. She doesn’t tense, or hesitate, pulls him in tighter, rests her chin on his head. That’s when he lets himself sink, her neck is smooth and cool against his cheek, their knees rest against each other. She smells like some kind of flower and tobacco and coconut oil, after all these years, and it makes him choke up a little. Her chest rises and falls steadily, he copies it until he stops feeling like the room is trying to swallow him whole. She’s whispering things he can’t process, the sound of her voice has always affected him in a way he can’t explain. </p><p>The air in the room is cold, but it’s not shifting, biting, it’s stale. Numbing. Kiara’s fingers move through his hair slowly, she tugs softly at the ends, scratches softly against his scalp, twirls locks on her fingers in loose, winding circles. He tries not to breathe her in too much. </p><p>He doesn’t know how long it’s been. “How did you know?” </p><p>He feels her sigh, feels the vibration when she says, “Thin walls.” </p><p>He doesn’t have to tell her, but he wants to say it out loud. “It was the storm.”</p><p>She doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s been having the exact same one since they were sixteen. She brings her lips to his forehead, whispers against him, “Do you wanna…”</p><p>“Not much to say,” He says it into her pulse point. “He was there. Couldn’t get to him. I can never…I never get to him.”</p><p>“I didn’t know it was still like that for you.”</p><p>“Think I’m used to it, by now. It’s like an eleven o’clock station. <em> Tune into tonight’s episode, same as last night’s: remember how your brother died at sea? </em>” She doesn’t laugh. He tries again. “This really brings you back, huh?” </p><p>Kiara smooths his hair to the side. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“You letting me fuck up your sleep schedule because I can’t get my shit under control.” </p><p>“It’s not like I was sleeping either.”</p><p>He listens to her breathe, because she’s not wrong. </p><p>Her fingers still, she’s not gonna let this go. “And it’s not like you weren’t there for me, too,” She says. “I haven’t forgotten any of that.” </p><p>“I am known to be pretty chivalrous.”</p><p>“If that helps you sleep at night.”</p><p>“Nothing helps me sleep at night.” He lets himself fall into the crook of her neck, starts drawing pictures on her back for something to do. She relaxes her hands along the back of his neck. After a while, when he thinks she may have fallen asleep and he feels steadier, his fingers move more slowly. He listens to the fan blowing from the bathroom. Speaks to the silence.</p><p>“Sometimes I pretend I’m someone else,” His throat tightens, tries to shut him up. “Not in a fucked-up way, just…I get up and I make myself coffee every morning. On my way to work, I stop by the marina, count the ones with blue lining. I sign up for beach cleanups. I do checks throughout the marsh. I avoid you---all of you---because it’s easier.”</p><p>He thinks maybe she’s asleep. Then he hears her, solidly, “Why do you think I do all of this?” She smiles against him, but it’s soft, bittersweet. “Why do you think I live here?”</p><p>He feels the pads of her fingers against the sides of his neck, feels the goosebumps rise. She says, “If I’m interesting…if I’m…busy, they don’t have time to hate me. I don’t have time to think about it.”</p><p>He runs his hands along the sleeves of her robe, hopes somehow she gets what he doesn’t know how to say. He pauses, suddenly she feels different against him. Her legs are bare, the robe has hitched up a little. He pulls back, looks at her face in the dark. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. </p><p>Her brows pull together as she assesses him. Then, she realizes, rolls her eyes. “Yes, I sleep naked.”</p><p>He doesn’t move to untangle them. He can’t help the way his mouth twitches upwards. </p><p>“It’s freeing,” She defends. Catches him smiling. “Shut up.”</p><p>When he falls asleep, it’s easy, he isn’t slipping and sliding through his mind. When he sits up, scowls at the sunlight coming in through the curtains, she’s gone. </p><p> </p><p>They eat breakfast at the island in the kitchen. Kiara makes herself some tea, he guzzles coffee. The morning’s too bright, he feels like he’s squinting at everything. His fork scrapes against his plate, the sound makes his stomach turn. He tries not to watch her sip her tea. </p><p>“Do you remember the week after senior year, when you tried to get me to go that place on the mainland?” He looks at his plate, not at her. </p><p>“Yeah,” She chuckles. “You kicked and screamed so much we let it go.”</p><p>“I went back,” He says. “Recently, not then.”</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“How did it go?” </p><p>“It was a long time coming, you know? Therapy…or therapists or shrinks…on the Cut, that’s not really a thing. No one talks about what they’re feeling, and if they do, it’s not like they can afford it. But I think you were right. It felt good to say some of it out loud.”</p><p>“Do you think it’s…helped?” </p><p> “I don’t know,” He says. “I don’t. I think…I learned some things about myself. I don’t feel like I have to hide it as much.” She’s not gonna like it either way, he figures he may as well just say it. </p><p>“I think…all this stuff you’ve been saying to me. Wouldn’t it be better to say it to someone who could actually help? Who knows what they’re doing?”</p><p>She sets her mug down, stares at him from across the table. Then, she realizes. “You think I should go.”</p><p>“I think we all should’ve, a long time ago. It---"</p><p>She folds her hands on the table on the table. “If I needed that…don’t you think I would’ve done it by now?”</p><p>“No, I don’t.” It’s out before he can stop it. “Because as bad as I am at letting people help me, you might be worse.”</p><p>She grips her hands tightly. “Fuck you. You don’t get to waltz back into my life and act like you still know me.”</p><p>He rubs at his face. “Look, I needed someone to say it to me. Someone who got it, someone I trusted. I thought---”</p><p>“After everything, you finally take our advice, and what...now you're the expert? You wanna return the favor? That's cute."</p><p>He grinds his teeth. Looks at the dolphin painting across the room. </p><p>She stands from her seat, grips the edges of the table. Looks him straight in the eye, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked a little wounded. “Fuck off. Please. You don’t…you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She walks out of her own house.</p><p>The stool is rigid, he feels achy and slouched, so he moves to the couch. Clicks the contact still labeled ‘Dr. Spock.’</p><p>“How’s the fortress of solitude?” </p><p>He leans his head back. “I don’t know how to do this with her.”</p><p>He can hear music gargling through Pope’s end. “Do what?”</p><p>“Any of it,” He admits. “I was never good at this kind of thing. This was always his area of expertise.”</p><p>“I’m not gonna pretend I know what’s going on with you. Either of you. But you know who she is. You get it. Probably better than any of us. Just…trust it. And listen to what she has to say.”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>There’s a pause, then Pope comes through a little muffled, like he’s talking closer, “You know, nothing has to come out of this if you don’t want it to. This doesn’t have to change things.”</p><p>“Yeah,” JJ says, but he knows it’s not true. </p><p>“Hey uh, before you go. We’re doing something on the day, at the house. Opening stuff, probably watching a couple cheesy movies.” Pope’s voice is fuzzy. “We could set something up. A facetime, or zoom, or…”</p><p>“Yeah. Uh, we’ll see.” </p><p>He finds Kiara on the beach about an hour later. She’s looking out at the water with her arms wrapped around her. The water’s navy, waves roll against the shore, to the point where the ice breaks.</p><p>He comes to stand at her side. He apologizes and when he says it, he doesn’t just mean for this morning. </p><p>She tells him it’s fine, like she always does. She’s stiff, gaze caught on the horizon, grey and long. He doesn’t feel like it’s fine, but he also knows she doesn’t hold shit, never has. </p><p>His boots have started sinking into the snow. He glances at her, she’s still not looking at him, so he gathers some snow in his hands, forms a ball. Her head snaps towards him at the movement, but she’s too late. It hits her in the shoulder, her jaw drops in shock. </p><p>"Asshole," She says. And then she's tying her robe around her securely, reaching towards the ground, and JJ's backing up, putting his hands up in front of him.</p><p>A large one smacks against his chest, and he gapes at her. They shoot trails of it at each other, falling through their fingers. He dodges one she aims at his shoulder. </p><p>They come to a standstill, and they’re both decently covered in it. He shakes his hair. She wipes at her arms. “Fuck, it’s cold.”</p><p>He ends up in front of her without realizing it, takes her hands, pulls her to him. Brings her hands to his chest, rubs his hands against hers.</p><p>“Mm’ sorry,” He says again, he’s never said those words this frequently in his life. </p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m not kicking you out yet.” Then, an afterthought, “<em>Shit </em>. It’s Christmas.”</p><p>*</p><p>
  <b>3</b>
</p><p>After his best friend doesn’t come home, JJ indulges himself in some belated gifts.</p><p>He wears a yellow hoodie with a palm tree on it for two weeks straight, until Pope throws it in the washing machine while he’s taking a shower. </p><p>For six months, a pink string bracelet that he’s re-tied at the ends rests on his wrist, until he loses it while surfing and slams his fist into a piece of driftwood until his knuckles start to bleed. </p><p>He drives the Twinkie around for a while, even when the brakes groan and pop, even when a crack in the windshield starts to grow, until the next winter. He’s driving down a back road, to the Chateau, and it’s snowing, and he skids to a stop along the ice. Realizes the engine is fucked, has been for a dangerous while, beyond repair. </p><p>When Kiara comes to pick him up, he isn’t able to get out for a while. She parks behind him, comes and gets in the passenger seat beside him. They pop on something old, familiar, the car speaker sounds muffled, cutting in and out in all the best parts. She taps a beat into the side, they listen to it three times. Then they leave it there, on the side of the road. Call a tow truck. </p><p>On the ride back, he notices a couple things on her floorboard, as if she didn’t care whether they got ruined. He catches ‘Pepperdine University’ along the top of one, in bold, threatening letters. Pushes at it with the toe of his boot. </p><p>The three remaining Pogues do a bonfire on the beach on Christmas Eve. They push at it with pieces of driftwood, toss in lint from their pockets when it starts to fizzle out. It’s the closest they come to celebrating.</p><p>They crash back at the Chateau, end up comatosed over nothing in the hammocks. He and Kiara share one, they don’t have to, but they do. They’ve been sharing a lot of things lately. He points at what he thinks is the North Star. She plays with his lighter.</p><p>They haven’t seen Sarah Cameron in a long time. Six months, maybe. Little glimpses, careless excuses they let slide too easily, three-am panics, but they all have those. He remembers the time Pope had called him, voice jilted and clear, asked, “CanIreadyousomething?”</p><p>He’d been on the couch, groggy, sat up a little. Glanced over at Kiara, asleep on the pull-out. Gotten up, gone to Big John’s room, better than the alternative. “What?”</p><p>“Can I read you something. It’s...I don’t know why, but it-it helps---”</p><p>“Yeah,” He’d said quickly, realizing what’s happening. “Yeah, of course.”</p><p>He’d recognized bits and pieces of it, realized what it was from. All through middle school, Pope used to carry around this massive textbook on forensic something or another. He’d read them anecdotes at the lunch table, JJ’d never been paying attention, not actively. The amount he’d picked up surprised him. What also surprised him was that by the end of that night, after sections and sections and sections of science-y crap, he felt like he was being comforted too. It became a common occurrence. Whenever he has nightmares, and doesn’t have enough nerve left to reach for Kie, he calls Pope. Lets him ramble, lets the words roll through him, find homes. </p><p>Sarah doesn’t function like that. She doesn’t respond to distractions, or rationalization, or comforting touches. No, she’s cool with pretending none of it’s happening at all. He’s no stranger to acting more fine than he really is, but this, whatever this is with Sarah, it’s beyond that. It’s like she’s been replaced by a mold, or a statue. Her movements are doll-like, her smiles aren’t reactionary, they’re controlled. She’s been building this shell for years, and he thinks, sometime over the past six months, it all snapped into place. There aren’t any cracks left to see through. No way to get to her. </p><p>She stops by on Christmas Eve, because it would be fucked-up if she didn’t. Brings fried shrimp as a...peace offering? A fresh layer of paint? He watches her warily as she puts a sunflower in the cracked vase on the center of the table. </p><p>They eat quietly, Kie rests her ankle over his, Pope picks at his plate. JJ can feel Sarah’s eyes, feel he glancing between them, trying to come up with whatever will make this easier, not whatever will fix it. A seat’s left open. The Chateau feels foreign, dangerous, this meal is agonizing, but he’s afraid of what will happen if he leaves the table. </p><p>Even in times like this, Kie’s a lifeline. She and Sarah talk about the environmental programs at Chapel Hill---he didn’t think he was this much of an asshole, but he feels defensive anyway.  Maybe it’s less about the words, more about the way Kie’s eyes light up, the way she smiles more easily than she has in a while. Sarah talking, actually talking, not the crap they get when they see her literally anywhere else. It’s like nothing changed. Until she packs up the rest of her box, blows away. Leaves the sunflower in the vase. </p><p>There’s not much to say when the screen door shuts behind her. They stay at the table a lot longer than they need to. </p><p>Pope crashes on the pullout. He and Kie are wide awake, so they sit out on the dock with a quilt wrapped around them, dangle their feet above the icy water. </p><p>It’s so quiet he can hear her breathing. He looks out at the darkness and has no idea what’s coming. “You should go.”</p><p>Like he expected, her voice is defensive. “What?”</p><p>He sighs, has to drag the words out of himself kicking and screaming. “You wanna go, so you should go.” </p><p>Her frown deepens. “If I wanted to go, I would.”</p><p>He looks at her sideways. “You’re telling me---forget all of it, all the bullshit for a second. You’re telling me, right now, there is no part of you that would want to be out there, on the<em> California coast </em>, studying your passion?”</p><p>“I’m on the coast now.”</p><p>He smirks. “There’s coast, and then there’s <em> coast. </em> I’d kill to get at some of those waves.”</p><p>“At least buy them dinner first.”</p><p>“You’re telling me you don’t want that at all. Not even a little bit.”</p><p>Her jaw’s a little clenched now. “I’m telling you it’s not that simple.” </p><p>“Looks pretty fuckin’ simple to me. All of this shit is weighing you down. Don’t let it.” They both know what he’s not saying. It’s him, he’s a fucking dumbbell. </p><p>“Weighing me down? Fuck off,” She pulls the quilt off of her, scoots an inch. Stares at the marsh.</p><p>“Kie.”</p><p>Her arms are folded, unrelenting.</p><p>“Kie, it’s freezing, just---” He holds the quilt out, she scoots further. They stare at nothing for a few minutes.</p><p>Eventually he exhales, lowers his voice. “We’re...we’re all just trying to not get fucked here.”</p><p>“We’ve been doing fine.”</p><p>“This...whatever it is, it’s ending. It’s gonna be over soon. I don’t know---”</p><p>“Why are you saying this now?” She says, looking at him. “You’ve known where I stood for months. I made my decision. Why are you stirring shit up?” </p><p>He laughs, but he’s plastic, and he thinks she can tell. “Because I wanted the bullshit, Kie. You said it the first time it was brought up. <em> Hell no. I don’t even wanna go to college. </em>It was what I wanted you to say. All wrapped up in a pretty package. But you want this, I know you do. You want something new. An adventure. You’re just scared.”</p><p>She chuckles, there’s no humor to it. “You are astounding, you know that?” </p><p>“Kie,” He breathes. “Kiara, look at me.”</p><p>She shakes her head, stares at the darkness. </p><p>He glances towards the house, towards Pope, just in case. Then, he says quietly, “One of us is gonna sink,” He watches her brows pull together, finishes it while he can. “It’s not gonna be you. I won’t---it can’t be you.”</p><p>That makes her pause, makes her search him, consider. She’s inches from him, to the point where he can feel her breath. If either of them pushed against the wall, even just slightly, something would change. He dares a glance at her lips. When he meets her eyes again, they’ve creased at the edges. She smirks. “You are so baked right now.” </p><p>He frowns, his words cling to his throat. </p><p>“I can literally see the rims around your eyes, holy shit,” She pulls back, he’s cold again. </p><p>A switch has flipped, she’s pulling away again. This time, it feels unmanageable. She stands, stretches, he hates the way she’s looking at him, eyes downcast. “The John B mojo’s not working for you, babe. Come find me when you’ve found a way to remove your head from your ass.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>When she realizes he was serious, the next morning, they don’t talk for a week. Then he gets a half-text, just: <em> Rixon’s.  </em></p><p>She’s sitting on the shore with her shoes off, icy water licking at her feet, like a maniac. He sits down beside her.</p><p>“Try it,” She tells him. Her eyes are closed. “You’ll beg for death for like ten seconds, but then it’s kind of awesome.”</p><p>He’s never been one to back down from anything, but throw her smug grin into the mix, and it’s decided. He pulls his boots off, balls up his socks. Figure it’s best to just go all in. Smacks his feet into the shallow water. <em> “MOTHER OF CHRIST.” </em></p><p>He has to bite down on his lip hard in order to not start howling. </p><p>“Breathe, man. Like we’re doing yoga, just...<em> in </em> ,” She looks at him, sweeps her hand towards her chest, inhales. “ <em> Out,” </em> She pushes the hand away.</p><p>When he stops feeling like his balls are shrinking in, he asks, “Did you just wanna give ourselves hypothermia, or…?”</p><p>“I’ve been thinking.”</p><p>“Oh no.”</p><p>“Listen, idiot.” Her complete and utter lack of any fucks, as she leans back on her hands, pushes her feet in further---it’s kinda hot. “About what you said. You may…” She trails off, looks up, away, as if willing herself to continue. “You may...have had a point.”</p><p>Not what he was expecting. He raises his eyebrows, starts to grin, and she points a finger at him. “A tiny, <em> miniscule </em> thing that you said. It might’ve not been completely idiotic.”</p><p>“Fucking hell,” He sighs, lies back in the sand, forgets his feet. </p><p>He sits up again, looks at her. “I’ve gotta memorialize this moment.” </p><p>Kie rolls her eyes, as he asks, “Would you prefer a photo or a life-sized sand mural?” </p><p>“I’d prefer if you shut up now, please, and let us have a nice moment.”</p><p>He leans back on his elbows, edges his toes in a little further. Winces. “I’m listening.” </p><p>“This is gonna sound ridiculous,” She says. “That whole summer. It was just thing after thing after thing. I liked...I liked taking those chances and not being one-hundred percent sure of things. I liked the freedom. I didn’t realize it, but that was what was getting to me. A part of me felt like---feels like it wouldn’t have happened, if not for all of that. Like wanting shit like that, wanting an adventure, that was what got us here in the end.”</p><p>He blinks. “Kie…”</p><p>“No, it’s not---I’m fine. Just all of it, he was always so onto this, onto that, looking for the next thing. I think...it took you saying it for me to register it. I didn’t even know I felt that way,” She says. “I’m scared to see myself that way again...to see any of us that way again---fucked-up, I know.”</p><p>His hand comes beside hers in the sand, he lays his pinkie over hers. “That was a fluke, Kie. That doesn’t happen. We just won the lottery of the damned.” </p><p>There’s a thin crease between her brows. “I wanna travel. I wanna...I don’t know. I think I need this.”</p><p>It’s the first time she’s said those words. Whatever JJ’s supposed to feel, it’s not supposed to be this: bones threatening to collapse, air filtering out, stomach hanging over the edge of a cliff. He suddenly has the urge to take her hand, tell her he’s full of shit, beg her to change her mind. That’s not what friends do. Friends support each other.</p><p>He reaches, pokes at her foot. Asks, “Did you feel that?”</p><p>She grins at him, he cracks open. “No.” She flicks his heel. </p><p>Nothing. “Fuck.” </p><p>They put their shoes back on, nearly fall over trying to get to their feet. Cling to each other tightly, start to wobble up the beach, laughing, cursing and wincing. He wraps an arm around her, she squeals when he lifts her up. She lets her arms circle his neck, lets him carry her to his bike. </p><p>He hands her the helmet, says, “I expect pictures, Carrera. Everywhere. If you’re in a McDonald’s, I’d better see a post.” </p><p>She grips his shoulder, smirks. He wants to place his hand over hers, keep it there. <em> That’s not what friends do, that’s not what friends do, that’s not what friends do.  </em></p><p>She leaves for Thailand at the end of the summer. Packs little more than a backpack, makes promises none of them can keep. After a month, he doesn’t hear from her again. </p><p>It’s the one and only time she ever took his advice. </p><p>*</p><p>He makes a decision, when they’re in the living room with a joint again, in the middle of the morning. Playing with his lighter and tapping his boot against the rug aren’t enough and Kiara’s beside him, practically glowing in the light coming from the window and they’ve smoked a lot of weed, both of them, but he’s never felt this peaceful in his life. He needs to do something, anything. </p><p>“I wanna call Pope.” </p><p>Her gaze shifts away. “I’m sure he’s got a lot going on with his family this morning. Maybe later, when---”</p><p>“He was talking about setting up a zoom,” JJ pockets his lighter, watches smoke drift out of her mouth. </p><p>She doesn’t bristle, but he can sense the tug of war going on behind her eyes. </p><p>“It’s just the family. They’ve probably already opened their gifts, so it would just be us. It wouldn’t be a big---”</p><p>“It’s not that,” She snaps a little. Seems to realize, looks at him more softly. “It’s not…I don’t need his pity. I don’t need him and Yvonne asking me what I’ve got going on. I don’t need Heyward to ask why I haven’t been around. I don’t need his new family to feel like they have to entertain me. I don’t…they don’t need me. Never have. I’m not gonna intrude on them just because you and I are shit at being happy on our own.” </p><p>JJ shifts towards her, looks her in the eye. Doesn’t waver, as hard as it is for him to be the solid one. “He invited us. He didn’t have to do that. Haven’t we missed enough of these?”</p><p>She looks small, like she did when he asked her to Winter Formal in high school, as friends, and she still didn’t believe him. Like even in that way, she wasn’t sure he was serious about her. The way she sees it all, the way she sees herself, it’s always confused him. “Okay.”</p><p>“Okay?” He leans forward. </p><p>“Okay,” She laughs, pushing him away. “Fuck. Fine.”</p><p>She puts out the joint, he leans his phone against a mug on the counter. She raises her eyebrows, goes to get her laptop. When she comes back in an olive-green sweater and a red scarf tying her curls into a bun, he tries to hide his smirk. </p><p>“Shut up,” She says anyway, sets the laptop on the coffee table in the living room.</p><p>He settles beside her, knee accidentally knocking into hers as she turns it on. He watches the wheel turn for a moment, and then he fishes his phone out of his pocket. She scoots the laptop forward a little, then back, then tilts the screen closer. </p><p>His thumb hovers over a picture that is mostly Pope’s nostrils, angled upwards and purposely and unflatteringly. He glances at Kie again, she’s watching him out of the corner of her eye. He clicks the contact. </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“Hey, man. I think we’re gonna take you up on the zoom thing. I mean, if y’all are still…”</p><p>There’s no hesitation. “Yeah! Yeah, let me…”</p><p>They hang up. The wait is the worst part. JJ’s foot taps a messy, relentless rhythm into the floor. He watches Kiara play with the hem of her sweater, looks at the screen before she can catch him. </p><p>A minute later, Pope texts him the code. Kiara types slowly, pecks at the keys, drags across her touchpad shakily. </p><p>The screen takes a couple moments to come into focus, rips in half and rematerializes slowly. Then he’s looking at Pope, in the cursed sweater, a beanie on his head. Julian’s beside him, JJ can tell they’re at the kitchen table, can see the living room and the fireplace and the tree in the background. </p><p>“Oh my god,” Kiara grins, ice broken immediately. “What are you wearing?!”</p><p>“Oh, this old thing? Just found it lying around.” He’s squinting back at her, he moves closer to the screen. “Is that my sweater?”</p><p>“What, this?” Kie looks down, cocks an eyebrow at him. </p><p>“I’ve been looking for that for years, Kie,” Pope looks slightly wounded.<em> “Years.” </em></p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” </p><p>Pope says, “This is Julian.”  </p><p>“Hey,” Julian grins. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”</p><p>Kie and Julian are fast friends. After a few minutes, it starts to feel like Pope and JJ aren’t even there. He went to private school most of his life, she was at the Kook academy for a year. She’s lived in Bali, he did a two-week excursion. He’s been juicing a lot lately. When he offers to send over <em> The Juicing Bible, </em> Kie takes a drink of her tea. Sets it down. “You’re amazing. Seriously, Pope, how did this happen? What’s the secret?”</p><p>“A mutual love for mortuary science?”</p><p>“Sure, babe.”</p><p>They can hear a smaller voice---Hugo’s---in the background. Julian tells Kie it was nice to meet her, excuses himself. </p><p>He expects it to be awkward, unsure, but Pope’s warm, easier than they’ve ever seen him. Shows them the things he gave Heyward and Yvonne, Kiara’s impressed by the meat thermometer set. They talk about work—well, Pope and Kiara do, JJ tries to pay attention. When they get into a mildly heated debate on the best Peanuts film, the familiarity pulls at JJ, he goes to get a drink. When he comes back, Yvonne’s telling Pope to scoot over, settling in front of the screen in a sweatshirt that says <em> Best Grandma Ever </em>. When her eyes settle on Kiara, she lights up, pulls the screen forward. </p><p>“Well, aren’t you just gorgeous as ever! How are you, honey?”</p><p>“I’m doing great, Mrs. Heyward,” JJ breezes.</p><p>Kie rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, I’ve got this pain in my side,” She glances at him. “Can’t really seem to get rid of it.”   </p><p>Heyward comes over in an apron, leans over the table, shoulders hunched. “Hey, Kiara. Stayin’ warm?”</p><p>Kiara chuckles. “What are y’all making this year?”</p><p>Heyward and Yvonne both light up at that. Yvonne grabs the screen despite Pope’s protests, carries them into the kitchen. </p><p>Kiara and Heyward look at the steak and ribs, Yvonne shows off her dressing. Promises to box some of it up for them, in case things clear up. When they end up back at the table with Pope, Hugo’s there. He’s a little shyer, but he grins at them, has something on the table in front of him that JJ can’t make out.</p><p>“Buddy, this is Aunt Kiara,” Pope says with a smile that mirrors his son’s. </p><p>Hugo waves. “You’re pretty, Auntie.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Kiara giggles, soppy. JJ looks at her profile, the light of the screen catching the curves of her face.</p><p>Pope lowers his voice slightly, leans towards his son. “You wanna show them their gifts?”</p><p><em> Their </em>gifts? JJ’s fuzzy and fractured, blurring and recalibrating more than the screen.</p><p>Hugo beams, reaches for the paper in front of him. He holds it up to the screen. “This is for you, Uncle J.” </p><p>There’s a shadow over it, but he can tell what it is. Another portrait, in gold and blue and peach and paint. He’s given him a handlebar mustache and his hair sticks out on every side, makes him look kinda like the sun. It’s not bad, at all---this kid definitely knows how to color within the lines. </p><p>He tries to speak, but his throat’s closing, his chest’s heavy. “Uh, thanks, dude,” There’s no way to express what he’s feeling. He doesn’t have the right words, or they don’t exist. </p><p>Hugo moves the sheet down, beams at him. He puts it down, picks up the other one, holds it up. It’s a sea turtle, in different shades of green, blocky and cartoonish. Kiara inhales sharply, her eyes are watery. “I love it.”</p><p>“It’s my favorite animal.”</p><p>“Mine too,” She says. “I love it. Thank you.”  </p><p>Hugo and Kiara have a ten-minute, extensive conversation about sea turtles and JJ thought he’d feel like drowning himself in his mug, but he pays attention, because it’s just about the most endearing fucking thing he’s ever seen. He wants to run from it, screaming. But he watches her without feeling like he’s being watched, and the way she smiles, all teeth, and moves her hands when she’s excited---it’s the warmest he’s ever felt in his life. </p><p>After a while, Hugo gets distracted by something in the kitchen they can’t see, tells them bye, slides off his stool. He doesn’t expect it, but he feels Kiara’s pinky find his, and then their hands are linked loosely, on the couch. She’s not looking at him, she’s looking at Pope, who’s venting about his newfound archnemesis, who also happens to be his new lab partner. He stares at their hands, rubs his thumb along the sleeve of her sweater, until Pope asks him a question, and his head snaps up. “Huh?” </p><p>Kiara chuckles at him, rolls her eyes but it feels fond, somehow. She doesn’t move her hand. </p><p>They keep the call going for most of the day, watch the chaos of the Heyward house like it’s a reality show. Pope talks their ears off about anything and everything. Julian’s not much better, once you get him going on the proper way to embalm a body or cultural appropriation in the media. Hugo shows them his gifts, JJ asks him what his dinosaur’s name is (Ernest), Kie plays three rounds of Mad Libs with him---JJ chimes in every once in a while---each one’s funnier than the last. </p><p>Heyward breezes by every once in a while with a fishing anecdote, makes them promise to clear a Sunday. </p><p>They can hear music start to blare in the background. He’s about to light a joint, she flicks it out of his hand when Hugo comes onto the screen again. She switches to her phone, he walks along the beach with her, they show Pope the view. </p><p>Pope has his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, even through the screen, they can see the steam curling out of it. They’re about to sit for dinner, all of them crowd around the small screen to say goodbye. Yvonne tells them to come round as soon as the ice melts. </p><p>When the call ends, the house suddenly feels dark, empty. Kiara doesn’t say anything at first, but then he picks up on the way she’s shaking slightly, the way her breath hitches. He curves an arm around her shoulder. She stiffens, and then she’s sinking into him, burying her face in his sweatshirt. She grips at the fabric so tightly he thinks she might rip it, shudders against him.</p><p>Wet, hot tears hit him. He doesn’t know much time has passed when she says, muffled against him, “Thank you.” </p><p>He frowns over her shoulder. “For what?”</p><p>She laughs shakily. “All of it.”</p><p>There’s not a lot in her pantry, Christmas dinner for them is a scavenger hunt through cabinets and shelves, a clusterfuck of ingredients. </p><p>“Wish sandwiches for the main course,” He tells her, digging around in her silverware drawer. </p><p>“Jesus Christ. We’re not at rock bottom just yet.” </p><p>He kicks loosely at her leg. “They’re the Maybank specialty.”</p><p>“More mold than bread and stale crust?”</p><p>“Fuck, Kie. I get they’re a little airy, but we can’t really have standards right now.”  </p><p>They do soup and crackers. Sit in the dining room with their seats only a couple feet apart. </p><p>“After the storm, my parents kept trying to get me to come up here,” Kiara swirls her spoon a little. “Tried to bribe me into going to my Aunt’s. Take me to the festival. They used to do shit like that all the time. Decorate the house, buy me things I didn’t need. One year they got us tickets to <em> The Nutcracker </em>. I didn’t go.” </p><p>JJ scratches his jaw, “It wasn’t much of a celebration for me before. Luke wasn’t exactly the heart of Christmas. But I didn’t even want it to be, afterwards. I was glad it wasn’t ever good, because then I couldn’t miss it.”</p><p>“Today was good.”</p><p>“Yeah,” It’s out before he can even think about it. “I’d do today again.” </p><p>She looks at him. Looks away. He doesn’t miss her smile.</p><p>She plays Christmas music from her phone, leaves it on the counter in the kitchen. They make more eggnog, she hasn’t forgotten one tradition. Sit in the living room, shuffle the cards, make empty wagers. </p><p>When Marley’s ‘White Christmas’ starts to waft in, Kiara jumps up, leaves her cards face-up. </p><p>She ambles into the kitchen. Twirls her hips, get lost in it, twists and swings. She looks back at him, he can tell it’s the eggnog. </p><p>He’s reminded of something---folded deep within him, nonexistent until now. His parents, sweeping through his kitchen, caught in a loose waltz. Laughing, sunny. He’s a kid, transfixed. Before everything hit the floor, before he even realized it was falling. </p><p>Kie’s turning in the yellow light, makes grabby hands towards him. He feels a little sick at first, but he moves towards her. Once he’s close enough, she leans forward, takes his hands in hers. Sways with him, coaxes it out of him, until he’s spinning her, laughing in her ear. Turning into her, holding her waist, grinding his hips against hers. They sway like they’re at Winter Formal.</p><p>She’s looking up at him through her lashes and he wonders if it’s on purpose. She’s close enough that he can see how deep her eyes are, the fiery dreamland. She has a tiny scar between her brows. Her lips are so close to his he’d barely have to do anything for things to change. He feels warm, like if he lets go of her he’ll float straight through the ceiling. </p><p>She’s always had more balls than him. He feels her lips brush against his, weightless, gone as soon as they came. Then he feels them again, plush, feels her fingers trail around the back of his neck, and he’s being pulled in closer, and he starts to feel trapped. </p><p>He turns his head, her lips graze his cheek, his stomach tightens. He keeps his hands on her waist. Weighs it for a moment, tries to make sense of it. </p><p>He asks the question he'd told himself he’d never ask.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>Kiara blinks at him. he realizes he's said it out loud. In an alcohol-induced slur, he has to finish it. "Why now?”</p><p>The moment's broken, because she knows what he means immediately. She snaps out of the trance, her eyes leave his, and that’s when it starts to sink in, but he can’t take it back. He’s not sure he wants to. Her hands slide off of his shoulders, she steps back. </p><p>“We’re good now. Better---I mean, I thought we were. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“I don’t---you don’t need to be sorry. I just don’t get it. After all this time. Why?” </p><p>Kie chews her gum. She’s looking at him head-on, he wants to break the connection.</p><p>“I mean, are you drunk?” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s fine, but I can’t---”</p><p>“No, I’m not drunk,” She’s defensive. “And I’m not trying to fuck around with you, we just...I just thought this was the moment.” Her eyes are heavy, loaded. </p><p>He’s not sure what to do with that, the right way to hold it. Doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but he has to keep going, so he doesn’t start ripping his hair out. “Why didn’t you fuckin’ call?” </p><p>She’s still as ice, staring at him with steadily-growing realization.  </p><p>“Why…why wasn’t it ever enough? Why wasn’t…” He cuts himself off, suddenly afraid of the answer. </p><p>“You blame me.”</p><p>“It’s not about blame. This was always gonna happen.”</p><p>“What the hell does that mean?”</p><p>“No, it just…it was always gonna be like this. Being around you…we were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Kook academy. Boarding school. Thailand.”</p><p>“Don’t…” She laughs, cold and scattered. “Don’t do that. It wasn’t like that. We were happy.”</p><p>His voice is more level than he is. “You don’t understand. That’s how deep it goes.”</p><p>“You wanna do this?”</p><p>Kiara is scraping and raw and digging when she’s drunk. She sounds like him. She leans against the counter. “Come on, JJ. Let’s not kid ourselves. You only wanted me around because I was hot, and rich, and I made you feel like a fucking god."</p><p>He bites back on instinct, doesn’t know whether he means it or not. "Yeah, well you only put up with me to piss off your parents, so get off the fucking pedestal."</p><p>“I did the best I could.” It’s one of the last things he wants to hear. “We all did, and if you really don’t think so, you can go fuck yourself.”</p><p>“Obviously we didn’t, or we wouldn’t be here.”</p><p>“You wanna know why I left?” She smiles, tight-lipped. “Because of shit like this. Because I couldn’t be the person you needed me to be.”</p><p>“I never asked you for anything.”</p><p>“You didn’t accept anything either,” She laughs shakily. “You always thought I was fucking with you. You were fucking with me just as much.”</p><p>He stares at a spot on the wall. </p><p>She takes a step towards him. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was hard, after John B. We were all…reminders of it. Memories.”</p><p>“Can you honestly tell me that if John B hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be here? Because I don’t think that’s true.” He laughs bitterly, swipes at his mouth. Realizes it as he says it. “I think...I think you were already gone, by then. I think you decided how it was gonna be long before that.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Her eyes are watery now, her hand’s are shaking. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”</p><p>“He...he kept trying to piece us together---into this puzzle. Family. It didn’t work. Never could’ve worked,” JJ says. “We grew up. That’s what happens. I get it.”</p><p>“If you got anything, you wouldn’t…you wouldn’t have thrown this in my face.”</p><p>“I guess I wanted to be proven wrong.” </p><p>She comes right up to him, and it takes everything in him not to flinch, to back up. Her gaze is searing, final. “It’s a two-way street, babe,” She says. “You didn’t call either.” </p><p>He pushes past her, their shoulders knock. He trudges into the living room. Glances around the house, gestures to the room, all of it. “Well, once a Kook always a Kook.”</p><p> “Get out.”</p><p>*</p><p>
  <b>4</b>
</p><p>Little JJ likes storms. All it takes is a warning, the sound of a siren, and he’s off from school, allowed to find his way to the Chateau, end up under a blanket fort with John B. He likes watching the surge from the beach, when no one’s around to scold him (which is often), he surfs the storm. No power means a strange transparency comes over the island, everyone comes out from under their shells. The blending of madness, plowing through everything that’s supposed to make sense---when he hears air like this, he feels understood.</p><p>They aren’t supposed to be here, none of them. Looking around the living room of the Chateau feels claustrophobic. </p><p>He’d escaped his own kind of storm at his house without the wind tearing him limb from limb, he was crashing until further notice. </p><p>The Heyward’s came by to drop off a couple casseroles and some loosely-wrapped gifts that’s contents were very obvious. Mrs.Heyward had made them all sweaters, soft and homey, and JJ’d felt something he couldn’t explain, so he’d grumbled when he’d put his on, complained under his breath that it was itchy. </p><p>The Carrera’s hadn’t even planned to come through the door. The Nissan Xterra sat in the drive as they waited for Kiara to come out, windshield wipers cutting against the window. She’d stalled as long as she could, when the wind had gotten louder, it was like she’d manifested it. Phones and the old T.V. set in the living room lighting up with alerts and flashes of color. When the view from the window became obscure, blurry, they’d all accepted defeat.</p><p>The Chateau is small for Big John and John B. Now, it’s practically toy-sized. Mr. and Mrs.Carrera pace near the doorway, peer through the windows, as if they’re afraid to sit down. Ms.Yvonne and Mr.Heyward are in the kitchen with Big John. The Pogues are on the pullout couch, knees knocking into each other, listening to it. </p><p>“Do you think they’re still gonna keep the light show up?” Pope asks, twisting at the string of his hoodie.</p><p>“Nah, they chickened out,” JJ theorizes. “They don’t know storms like we do.”</p><p>John B bumps his shoulder with his. “They have generators.”</p><p>“And back-up generators.”</p><p>“And back-up-back-up generators,” Kie says. “Do you think we’re stuck for the night?”</p><p>Pope fiddles with the blinds, peers out at the chaos. “Looks like it.”</p><p>She lowers her voice slightly, her arm brushes JJ’s side. “I’d rather be here.”</p><p>He pulls at the string bracelet she gave him earlier that afternoon, because she was supposed to be driving up to her family’s beach house tonight. It’s red and green, weaved in a pattern so tight he can’t figure out all the ways it’s braided. She’d looked nervous when she’d given it to him. He thinks she’d probably worked on it for a while. “I’d rather be here too.”</p><p>Big John unplugs lights on the tree, just in case. The parents gather around the T.V. Watch the weather channel, make small-talk. They shift on their feet, avoid the inevitable. Finally, Big John offers up his room for the Heywards and the guest room for the Carreras.</p><p>Big John takes the sofa, the Pogues take the pull-out couch, they’re small enough that they can all fit, even when Mrs.Carrera tries to get Kiara to make a pallet on the floor. JJ falls asleep once, maybe twice, because like usual, it’s chaos. Pope’s always a furnace, Kiara snores lightly, once John B did an unconscious, jerking version of the macarena. </p><p>At one point in the night John B’s foot ends up in his face. He scowls, pushes it away. Hears a quiet chuckle, realizes he’s also still awake. </p><p>“I’m glad it stormed,” He whispers. </p><p>John B, shifts onto his back. “Me too. Even though we keep stepping on each other.” </p><p>“Even though I have to sleep next to your sweaty pits”</p><p>“If it hadn’t stormed, I still would’ve tried to get y’all to stay.”</p><p>JJ frowns at the wall. “Why?”</p><p>“It’s Christmas. Shouldn’t we all be together?”</p><p>“Pope had a thing with his family. Kie had somewhere to go.”</p><p>John B runs his hands through his hair. “Yeah, but screw that. We’re family too.”</p><p>“It worked out. We ended up here.”</p><p>“Yeah, but shouldn’t we make it happen ourselves?” </p><p>“Why are you being so weird?”</p><p>John B sits up in the dark, ever the thespian. “Shouldn’t we...shouldn’t we not have to wait for things to happen to us? Shouldn’t we just do it ourselves?’</p><p>JJ tucks his chin against his sweater. Tucks his legs up. “Budge over. You’re gonna make me fall off.”</p><p> </p><p>Christmas morning in the Chateau is another storm. People shuffling, sliding past each other, knocking into rickety furniture and tacky antiques. Big John puts a turkey in the oven. Starts fiddling with some salt and pepper until Mike pats his shoulder, tells him to sit down. </p><p>He doesn’t sit down, gathers the Pogues in the living room for a cheesy photo. They’re all wearing their sweaters, JJ tucks one arm around Pope, one around Kiara. It’s morning and he’s not hiding in his room or locked in a closet, he’s with family, so he smiles. Big John angles the old camera like he’s a professional, Anna snaps a couple on her iphone. He’s pretty sure he blinked. </p><p>They gather around the tree, Big John turns the lights back on and they flicker for a moment, before glowing steadily. They watch John B open a few gifts. Pope’s gotten him a bug catching kit, Kie some traction pads for his surfboard. JJ gets him a used copy of <em> Fishing, For Dummies. </em>The Pogues and Big John snicker when he opens it.</p><p>Before Kiara has to leave, they sit in the tree in the backyard. It’s bare and open, asleep in the cold. She sits on one of the higher branches, legs dangling down, Pope’s across from her, he and John B are on a couple of lower branches. </p><p>Lately, he’s been sneaking cigarettes from Big John’s office. The first time they’d shared one, she’d gagged, told him she wasn’t trying it again. When he reaches in his pocket for it today, she tells him to hurry up, before the parents come out and see.</p><p>John B coughs loudly when it gets passed to him, they tell him to shut up. Pope refuses to try it. They watch the drive, avoid the inevitable. The ground’s covered in snow, at peace.  </p><p>JJ leans against his branch. “Y’all remember when I did that day in Wenona?”</p><p>The Pogues are quiet, they stare at their dangling feet. Kiara’s the one to acknowledge it. “It was three days ago.” </p><p>Three days ago, during one of Georgia’s many vacations, Luke had decided he’d had enough. Dragged him to the car. Carted him to Wenona, dropped him off at an orphanage. He’d stayed exactly one day and one night. The place had been grey all over, he’d been afraid it would collapse on top of him at any moment. There’d been other kids, not like him, and yet also mirrored images. He’d felt like he was staring at the ripples in a lake, looking up at the clouds after a lot of rain, seeing shapes that scared him.</p><p>There’d been crafts at a small, plastic table that was too low to the ground to get his knees under. There’d been a woman who looked three times his size, long, unkempt hair and circles under her eyes that were darker than his. She carried around a tiny fish hook, hanging from a belt loop at the top of her jeans, he didn't want to imagine why. He never saw her reach for it. </p><p>There’d been a bare tree, a dusty fireplace, a communal stocking with butterscotch and jolly ranchers shoved to the brim. He’d been lying on the torn-up rug, stupidly, he’d had a daydream that maybe someone would come find him. He’d hear tapping at the window, and the Pogues would be climbing through to him, their greatest adventure yet. He’d hear the door burst open, and Big John would be there, quiet, stoic anger and strength he’d always idolized, but never been able to reach. He’d take Heyward, welcome Yvonne. If Ward freaking Cameron came barreling through, he’d smile.</p><p>He’d gotten himself out. Snuck out in the middle of the night, hadn’t recognized anything, for miles. Found a payphone. Called the only number he had memorized.</p><p>When Big John’d showed up on that quiet, empty street, he hadn’t said much. Just gruffly, “Let’s go.” JJ’d watched him breathe through his nose, his fists grip the steering wheel. He’d thought maybe he’d done something wrong. Wondered for a moment if he’d have better luck on his own. </p><p>Halfway back, he’d pulled over to the side of the road. JJ’d tensed, eyes darting too fast to process anything. </p><p>Big John’d turned towards him. Said so lowly, so controlled, it must’ve been painful, “What do you want to do?”</p><p>He hadn’t had to think about it. “I wanna go home.” </p><p>He’d been at the Chateau for a while. When he’d said he needed to go get some of his stuff, assess things, Big John’d almost physically stopped him. Relented when he reminded him it could only make things worse. When he’d showed back up at his house, Luke hadn’t said a word. It was as if it’d never happened. </p><p>He’d tried to forget the experience, never talked about it, since. There’s one thing he’d realized that day, a thought that opened his mind up more than he’d ever wanted, revealed more to himself than he’d ever want to see. He could be any one of those kids. Easily. </p><p>Then Georgia’d come home, and he’d felt it all rise up around him, the Maybank household becoming the eye of a storm, a strange, shredding clarity. He’d left in the middle of the screaming match, not wanting to be around for the aftermath. </p><p>He wouldn’t have brought any of it up again, but he’s trying to make sense of something. “Remember how I told you there was this kid who looked like a Pogue Rafe?”</p><p>Pope mimes throwing up. “Can you imagine?”</p><p>“I saw him in Figure Eight the other day. Well, on the edge, kinda. I don’t know whether he’s still at the...or whether he got adopted, or something. I couldn’t tell,” JJ rubs his palm along the bark. “Kelce and his parents were doing this booth thing. Like a charity. The kid’s like, watching it for a while, across the street. He goes up to it. I couldn’t hear what he said, but…” JJ drags off. Realizes his breaths have started to speed up. He doesn’t talk for a minute. The Pogues don’t say anything, don’t look at him either. </p><p>“He was like, asking for things, I guess. I don’t think it works like that. You’ll never guess what they said.”</p><p>“They refused him,” Pope smirks bitterly. </p><p>“And we have a winner,” JJ starts scratching at the bark, instead of himself. He always gets rougher when it’s cold. His skin gets dry and he’s restless all the time, picking at himself, just to see what happens.  </p><p>“I don’t know, I just can’t imagine being like that. That...desperate, I guess. I’m not saying my life is good, in any way, but I also don’t think I’ve ever felt like him. He doesn’t have any pride. He can’t. It’s messed up.”</p><p>Kiara’s eyes snap down towards his. The way she reads him is annoying at best, other times, it’s unbearable. “You want to go home again.”</p><p>“Shouldn’t I?”</p><p>“Why?” Her voice rises slightly. “He left you at a freaking orphanage. Why would you ever go anywhere near him?”</p><p>He doesn’t say that that’s probably the most tame thing Luke’s done all year. “Because he’s my dad. And if I can do something about this, I shouldn’t bury my head in the sand.”</p><p>“Bury your head in the---you’re not burying anything. There’s nothing to back down from. You don’t owe him anything.”</p><p>“It’s not about him. It’s about me. My house is a junkyard, all the time. Someone’s gotta step to this. It might as well be me.” </p><p>John B’s been strangely quiet. At that, he looks over at JJ. “You’re really gonna take that risk?” They stare at each other for a beat, JJ’s frozen, desolate. He’s the closest to the truth, understands that life in the Maybank house is a little more severe. </p><p>“We’re coming with you.” All three boys’ heads snap up towards Kiara. Her chin’s sticking up, her brows are furrowed, they’re already past the point of no return. </p><p>“Kie, don’t be stupid. You know you can’t---”</p><p>“We don’t have to come in,” She jumps off of her branch, crouches slightly as her converse hit the ground. “We can stand as far away as you need.”</p><p>He laughs, looks down at her. “It’s finally happened. One of us has lost it.”</p><p>“Two of us,” Pope says. He looks down, gauges how far up he is. Maneuvers down the tree slowly, almost digs the heel of his sneaker into John B’s leg. When he finally gets to the ground, wipes his hands on his pants, he looks up at JJ, brows raised. </p><p>John B sighs at him. “Smooth.” Swings off of his branch like he’s a newborn bird learning to fly, but he sticks the landing, holds his arms up dramatically. “Three. Your move.” </p><p>The walk to his house is empty, solemn. The only thing to focus on is their shoes, crunching through the snow. The island feels torn down. He has no idea what he’s heading back into, but the morning makes him feel alive. Shaky. He tries to smile. When the house comes into view, the dying drywall, the mirrored glass, he pauses, says, “Wait here.” </p><p>The Pogues are reluctant, planting their feet in the muddy grass. Kie chews at her lip, hands in fists against her sides, eyes burning holes through the frail structure. He wants to say something, but she’s a little scary like this. She might just follow him in. </p><p>He walks up the drive, realizes he’s still wearing the sweater, takes it off on his porch. He pushes at the screen door and it doesn’t creak. </p><p>He hadn’t noticed it until now, but the house sags. The lack of decorations make it look naked. He can sense a hole, an entire presence missing, it’s like the sun is gone. </p><p>Luke’s lying on the floor in the living room, wearing a crude grey sweatshirt, a beer bottle stuck between his hands. He snores lightly. </p><p>JJ watches him for a moment. Then he checks the entire house, the front yard again, the back, every side and crevice and shell. </p><p>Georgia’s gone. </p><p>He wonders if she’s just out because of the storm.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s muddled, all of it. He’s been remembering a lot of things he’d thought he’d buried over the past few days. Mostly, he thinks about the day after the storm. Kiara was supposed to drive up to the beach house that morning. Instead, she went with him, they all did, their shoes tracking trails across the island, as he searched for someone who wasn’t there. She’d been wearing yellow converse, like always, he’d been in a pair of boots that were tearing at every seam. She’d let him hold icicles in his hands, call everyone they passed in a jacket with a fur lining a bitch. Until they came to Rixon’s and he went to stomp out across the ice and she grabbed his arm, held him on the shore so tightly he started to go numb.</p><p>She was always there, more than anyone was in his entire life, until she wasn’t. Everytime he drives by this place, he’s a different person. She could’ve easily listened to her parents, driven up that day, let him sink by himself. He’d thought they’d given up on each other. So what is he doing here?</p><p>The walk out of The Lookout has given JJ a little time to sober up. He takes the trash bag, just to have something to do with his hands. Kiara walks him out the front, even holds the door for him. The porchlight pricks at his vision. </p><p>He doesn’t look back at her, doesn’t have the strength to. He tries to figure out whether he regrets what he said in the kitchen. </p><p>The cold air brushes him everywhere, gives him the energy to walk down the porch steps. They creak obnoxiously, mockingly. His feet pad slowly across the snow, he looks up at the moon. He realizes then, that nothing over the past few days matters, not really. That this---this is the point of no return. If he keeps walking, if he turns his back now, that’s it. The drifting, the distance, all of it---it’s out of their control. He wants to prove them wrong. </p><p>He stops short, halfway down the yard. He’s breathing so quickly he can hear it, small puffs that echo in his ears. He’ll hear from acquaintances if she ever moves out of here or see a post on her social media when she gets married, or has a kid, or starts travelling again. He’ll bump into her at the worst times, maybe it won’t be as stilted, maybe it’ll be worse. Fuck that. He’s not doing that again. He turns back.</p><p>Moves as fast as he can without sliding into the snow, up the drive, up the steps, towards Kiara, who’s standing in her doorway, arms folded, features cold and solid. She says, raspy and edged, “The hell are you doing?”</p><p>He takes two strides across the porch, he doesn’t think about it, just takes her face in his hands.</p><p>She falters, eyes widening slightly and flicking over his face. Her cheeks are soft, cool, he can hear her breath, chest moving just as quickly as his. </p><p>He just needs a sign, anything so they don’t have to leave it like this. Her eyes track his lips, not the first time she’s ever done that, but it’s never felt like this before. She leans into his left hand, he doesn’t think she realizes it. He recognizes the look in her eyes, he hasn’t seen it in years.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to make up for all of it. How to say goodbye again. So he doesn’t say anything. Closes the distance and presses his lips against hers, hard. </p><p>She’s so warm he shivers slightly, he wasn’t expecting that. She stiffens at first, and then she presses back. She places her hand over his, where it’s still rested against her cheek. She tastes like peaches he’s brought to summer nights on the Pogue, licking juice off of their fingers and tobacco---he’s on the dock, fingers brushing with hers, letting his insides burn up. She softens the kiss, tilts slightly, practically exhales into him. He’s the one to break it, his forehead leaned against hers, holding him up. Her breath is warm on his cheek. </p><p>There’s too much to apologize for, to try and collect, so instead, he pulls back, looks at her. Her eyes are wide, melty, reminding him of everything that’s ever felt good, easy. She blinks rapidly, her hand squeezes over his, grips him tightly, bones digging into bones. He tries to memorize it, porchlight hitting the golden-hued ends of her curls, glinting reflecting in the lines on her face, on her mouth, parted slightly. His eyes close slightly, he’s glassed over. </p><p>His voice cracks a little, as he rubs a calloused thumb across her cheekbone, says, violently casual, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”  </p><p>She breathes out slightly, he thinks, hopes, maybe it’s a laugh. Her nod is so slight he might be imagining it. He pulls his hands away, starts to sink through the floor. </p><p>He’s barely turned back towards the drive when a hand wraps around his forearm, and he’s dragged back. His head snaps back, just in time for Kiara’s other hand to reach the back of his neck, tug him downwards, back to her. </p><p>She presses against him like he’s a jacket she’s trying to get under and JJ’s afraid he isn’t enough. He wraps his arms around her, tucks her into him, covers her lips with his. </p><p>This time, it’s open-mouthed, messy. No longer sentimental. She pushes against him, slow, persistent, her hands trailing up his body to move through his hair. He starts to suck on her lower lip, gets attached to the feeling, does it a little harder. She gasps slightly, opens her mouth just enough for him to slip his tongue in, for it to become personal.</p><p>When her nails scratch against his scalp, his hands settle on the small of her back. The wool of her sweater’s soothing, addictive, so he spreads his palms, strokes his fingers along her back.</p><p>Kiara breaks away. Her eyes have closed at some point, now, they flutter open. She looks up at him, as if weighing something in her mind. A draft comes through, they both shiver. Then she pulls him inside, and he lets her, steps into the warmth. </p><p>The dance they do through the house and down the hall towards Kiara’s room is clumsy, staggering. Twice, he pushes her against a wall, grazes his teeth along her jaw, the curve of her neck, palms bracketing her head. He can tell she’s still a little pissed from the way she fists his sweatshirt, tugs at his hair, presses her forehead hard against his.</p><p>Eventually they push through the door to her room, he doesn’t know where to put his hands anymore, wants to be everywhere at once. Shutting the door behind him is an afterthought. </p><p>In the time he’s been here, he’s never been in Kiara’s bedroom. It’s sprawled out before him, earthy tones, a canopy bed with white and light orange covers. A tie-dye rug sits smugly on the floor, a patterned tapestry hangs from the wall by the window. String lights line the top of the wall. He takes it all in at once, melts at the little paradise, because the rest of the house doesn’t make sense to him, but this feels so much like her, reminds him of sitting on the floor in her bedroom at her parent’s, watching her thread together string bracelets or braid her hair. </p><p>“Damn, Kie. Quite the setup,” He says, eyes darting around. </p><p>He lands on the portrait above the bed. The torso of someone lying on a beach, bronze skin glowing, ring-covered hands covering their breasts. The woman looks like a goddess, the picture is blurred slightly, smoothed over in a professional way. He stills, mouth hanging open a little. </p><p>“Fuck.” He’s transfixed. “Is that you?”</p><p>Kie snorts. “I’m not telling you.”</p><p>His gaze hangs on it for a couple more moments, until she says, on an exhale, “Are you gonna fuck me, or what?” </p><p>He turns back towards her, finds her staring at him, eyebrows raised mockingly. She tilts her head to the side. “Because we can talk about interior design, if you’d prefer.” </p><p>“Sounding a little desperate there, Kie.” </p><p>“Like you didn’t just initiate this on the porch.”</p><p>“Dry spell? It’s gotta get lonely up here.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>Soon after, they end up on the bed, the mattress shakes slightly as they crawl up it, Kiara with her head against the pillows, JJ lingering over her. He presses his lips to her temple, her cheek, the crook of her neck. She tugs at the hem of his sweatshirt, helps him lift it up and off. </p><p>Her fingers skate across the lines of his chest, his abs, back up his sides. She sighs.</p><p>He feels strange, chilly. Watches her face. “Are you sure about this? We can…” He trails off as the pad of her thumb finds the scar on his ribcage, smooths over it.</p><p>“Yeah. I’m sure.” She looks up at him, lip between her teeth. “Are you?”</p><p>He responds by kissing her again, softer, lingering. Her sweater comes off soon after, her bra goes with it. They’re tangled limbs, keeping each other warm. Kiara fumbles in the drawer on her nightstand for a silver wrapper, he takes it from her, tears it open with his teeth, she rolls her eyes, smirks. </p><p>He pulls the plush covers up over them. They come together at a pace that makes Kiara bite at his shoulder, makes him gasp, everything is too warm, too bright.  </p><p>Afterwards, he tries to catch his breath, face buried in her neck. He’s never felt this safe, this snug. Then she’s pushing at his shoulders, and he’s pliant to her touch, rolling them over so she’s on top. He inhales sharply. She pulls the covers in tighter around them. </p><p> </p><p>At some point in the night, they’re both on their sides, limbs meshed together. He traces her with his fingers---her arm, her side. She has her arms around his neck, her leg over his. The room’s half-lit, the golden string-lights glowing softly. He’s softer, he knows that. At some point tonight, he let it all go.</p><p>He sits up on his elbows a little bit, gestures up towards the portrait. “That <em> is </em> you.” </p><p>Kiara’s thumb rubs circles into the back of his neck. “No shit.” </p><p>“And I’m the cocky one.”</p><p>She pushes at his shoulder. “I live alone. I can do what the fuck I want.” </p><p>He looks up at it again, the light in the room making it look more golden. “I can’t lie, it <em> is </em> pretty hot.” </p><p>He looks at her again, at the golden reflections. The tiny edges around her mouth from smiling too much, the creases around her eyes from laughing too loudly, all the little remnants of the happiness they once shared. There’s a scar between her brows, another on her temple. The second one’s partially his fault. He’d dared her to jump over the little bonfire they’d made in the backyard when they were ten, she’d taken a running start, been knocked clean over by a low-hanging branch from the oak tree. </p><p>He steels himself. “About earlier. What I said…”</p><p>“Don’t,” She drags her thumb over his lips. </p><p>“I said some shit I didn’t mean. I do that a lot.”</p><p>Her thumb pauses on his lower lip. “Yeah, but it came from somewhere.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have interrogated you about it,” He says. “Didn’t mean to come for your throat like that.”</p><p>She shrugs. “I wasn’t pissed at you. I was pissed at the situation.”</p><p>He blinks slowly, melts a little. “I wasn’t pissed at you either. I guess I was mad at myself. For letting it go on this long. For not dealing with my shit.” He presses his teeth against her thumb, when she pulls it back, he chuckles. Then, looking at her collar bone instead of her eyes, he says quietly, “And I get it if you wanna forget this happened. If it was just a moment.” </p><p>She stills against him. “Is that what you want?” </p><p>He twists at one of her curls. “Isn’t that why you let me back in? Warm body and all?”</p><p>She reaches for the hand that’s in her hair, makes him pause. Still he avoids, looks at the top of her head. “Fuck off,” She says. “You’re more than a warm body.” </p><p>He shakes his head slightly, blinks a couple more times. “You don’t have to...I don’t need pity, Kie. Not from you.” </p><p>“Look at me,” She says firmly. When his eyes don’t move, she takes his chin, tilts him towards her. Her eyes are solid, present. “I fucked you so you wouldn’t leave. I fucked you because having you holed up in this empty house with me has been the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I fucked you because I wanted to. Have for a long time.” </p><p>“Damn,” He says after a moment, trying to ignore the burning feeling in his chest. “I know you were on the slam poetry team, but damn. That’s like, three-hundredth page of a diary, get that tattooed on me shit.” </p><p>“I’m going to shove you off of this bed in about two seconds.”</p><p>“Seriously, though. You know how I feel about you.” </p><p>She frowns slightly, he wonders if she’s starting to regret this. “Do I?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do I really know how you feel about me? Because fuck. Sometimes I think you’re obsessed with me, and then sometimes I’m like...fuck. He didn’t call.”</p><p>“I almost did. A lot of times.”</p><p>Her nails graze the skin of his forearm. “Why didn’t you?”</p><p>His smile’s bittersweet. “It sounds pathetic now, but...I figured that was it. You’d finally figured out I was a fraud, I wasn’t the person you thought I could be. Couldn’t become that person, not anymore. I just thought...if you wanted to call, you’d call. I didn’t want to intrude, not when you’d finally gotten away from it all.” </p><p>She frowns deeper. “JJ---”</p><p>“I’m not trying to blame you. Or myself, I don’t do that anymore,” He says. “But every time I was around you, or I went to call, it reminded me of everything. I hated it. I hated feeling like I was broken, like we were all fucked-up forever. It’s selfish. But it was easier to ignore it.”</p><p>She’s playing with his rings now. Twists at the silver tiger one a few times. “With John B...I don’t know...it’s like, it’s like sometimes I can’t even believe it happened. And then sometimes it’s all I think about. Sometimes I don’t think about it at all. It changes, as I change. But it never goes away...not even for a second. It never will.”</p><p>He watches her hand brush the bronze ring on his pinky. Says, “I think it feels different, now. I think it’s...it’s less real than it was before. Like we’ve just fallen out of touch. And I’m just waiting for the time to call him.”</p><p>Kie smiles. “You know he’s waiting for you. Shitty fishing pole, boat of clouds. Just you wait.” </p><p>“I think it’ll be Summer forever.” </p><p>She sighs. “Wouldn’t that be the life?” </p><p>They sit in the silence for a while, let themselves be content, still. </p><p>“You can stay,” She whispers. “A few days. Till New Year’s, even. If you want.”</p><p>“Think about what you’re saying, Carrera. I’ve been told my feet smell like death.” </p><p>“I grew up with your nasty feet. I think I can manage.” </p><p>He studies her face, tries to find the insincerity, but it doesn’t exist with her. “You’re being serious right now?”</p><p>She sighs. “Go to my dresser. Top drawer.” </p><p>He raises his eyebrows, and when she doesn’t relent, he shuffles out of the covers. Pulls his boxers back on, because it’s fucking freezing. He walks over to the drawer, isn’t surprised at what he finds. Pulls out a red bra, turns back towards her. </p><p>She sits up, holding the sheet up to her neck. “Under all that, idiot.”</p><p>He shuffles through her underwear, until his hand comes into contact with an old, sticky photo. He takes it out. It’s him and her, years ago, on the beach. They’re sitting cross-legged, a sandcastle between them. He has sand on his chin. She’s grinning so widely he can tell she was laughing, her hair falling out of its bun. </p><p>His eyes are glassy. He rubs at them before saying over his shoulder, “You are one sappy motherfucker.” </p><p>She sits up, the sheet drops a little. Leans on her hands, looks at him. “Now why would I hold onto something like that if this didn’t mean anything to me?”</p><p>“Seriously, this is a little creepy,” He pokes at her, setting it carefully down on the top of the dresser. </p><p>“Shut up. I can see you grinning.” </p><p>He turns back to her, lets his smile show. When he goes to get back in, he pulls the sheets off of her, the cold air hits and she gasps, aims a loose kick at him. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The Lookout’s more homey in the morning. JJ stands on the drive, hands in his pockets, feeling the sunlight tickle lightly at his face. He has a joint between his teeth. “That’s right. Melt, bitch!”</p><p>He watches the snow, all the way down to the gates, sparkling, imagines it’s growing thinner as he’s staring at it. The door to the house creaks, his head jerks back, on instinct, even though he knows it’s just her. </p><p>Kiara comes down the steps in a hoodie, curls in a bun. “Headin’ out, chief?”</p><p>He smirks as she steps into his side, wraps an arm around her. “Miss me already?”</p><p>She snorts, pushes her shoulder into him. “Ready to have the house to myself again.”</p><p>Little puddles are scattered across the lawn, patches of grass have started to become visible. The ice along the gate is gone. </p><p> “Don’t get too excited.” He looks down at her. “It’s only a couple hours.”</p><p>The truck had taken a while to get up and running when he’d first pulled out of The Lookout about a week ago, the day after Christmas. It’s a fuckin’ miracle he didn’t have to get it towed. She’d held his hands tightly when he’d said goodbye on the porch, they both knew it wasn’t forever, a few hours really, but it felt like the end of something. The snow had melted, he had to check up on a few things. Grab some of his shit. It was when he was pulling out onto the back road that day that he’d realized he was completely, utterly whipped. As soon as he’d started to drive away, he’d felt panic start to churn, had to glance over at the picture that was sitting in the passenger seat a few times. The one she’d let him take---them on the beach.</p><p>He came across an old string bracelet he’d made the summer after senior year, through a beginner-level tutorial, when he was rifling through his apartment. Took it with him because he’d wanted to give it to her for years. </p><p>Went by Pope’s house, had coffee with the family. Mentioned off-handedly, without eye contact, “Yeah, I’m gonna stay up there for a little while.” </p><p>Pope’d opened his mouth. Closed it. JJ decided to take that as a show of support. </p><p>“Oh,” Yvonne had said, but he hadn’t missed the smugness behind her eyes.</p><p>He and Kiara have been half-roommates for about a week now. He doesn’t know what exactly it is they’re doing, but he doesn’t really care, as long as they keep doing it. They’re fucking a lot---that has to be a good sign. They’ve broken more than a few antiques throughout the house. He still thinks about the poor flower pot in the study. </p><p>Today, he heads into town for the most important part of tonight. There’s a firework shop in Nags Head, run by a friend of his cousin’s. One might say JJ Maybank should never be within five feet of explosives (That person being Kiara Carrera). Earlier that morning, she’d cornered him in the kitchen. “This is gonna be a nice, clean trip, okay? You’re gonna grab one---<em> one--- </em>of each. You’re gonna get sparklers. You’re not gonna get those fucking snaps. You’re not gonna get anything bigger than a roman candle. Nothing that could burn my house down.” </p><p>He’d responded by slipping an arm around her waist, kissing her in little sparks, presses to her mouth, her jaw, her neck. “I think this might be my favorite holiday.”</p><p>“God help me.” She makes a cross sign, looks up at the ceiling.</p><p>He buys every firecracker he can afford. The guy at the counter holds the bags out to him, eyebrows hitting his hairline. “You didn’t get all that from me.” </p><p>When he gets back, Kiara’s in full host-mode. Makes him take off his boots in the entrance, even though she’s never said anything before. </p><p>“You---change. Fix your bedhead.” She stops him in the middle of the front room with a pair of oven mitts over her hands. </p><p>“Great to see you too, babe,” He thinks he’s fucking with her when he says it, surprises himself when he starts to feel a little jittery. </p><p>He watches her falter, so slightly he barely notices it, roll her eyes at him. “While you’re at it, put on some goddamn deodorant. Or at least some cologne. There’s an old bottle in the bathroom cabinet.” </p><p>He doesn’t want to ask who’s it is, or who’s it was, so he sets the bags down, pads down the hallway. </p><p>Kiara’s never looked so nervous in the kitchen. She drops a whisk, she touches a hot pan twice. He comes up behind her, rests his palms on her shoulders, presses his lips to her hair. They sit on the porch with a joint, watch the snow like they’ve been at this for fifty years.</p><p>“It’s gonna be good,” He tells her. “They’re already pissing themselves at the mere fact that you’re cooking for them. The rest of it’ll work itself out.”</p><p>No more than a few minutes later, a familiar Nissan Xterra pulls up in the drive. The engine’s barely been cut before Anna Carrera jumps out, wobbles up the thawing yard in black ankle boots and a light grey sweater. </p><p>She’s halfway to them when Kiara touches his arm, mutters, <em>“Fuck</em>,” under her breath. JJ glances at her in question. “<em>The</em> <em>blue bird.”</em></p><p>Anna dumps her purse on the porch. Sighs, red lips pulled wide, blue eyes crystallized. “Well isn’t this just like old times?”</p><p>Kiara groans as her mother pulls her into a hug. “We literally face-timed an hour ago.” </p><p>“Not that, silly,” Anna pulls back, admires the beams of the porch, the silver knocker. “Being up here. Together. Now it really feels like the holidays.” She looks at him, touches a hand to her bangs. “JJ. <em> Been enjoying your stay?” </em></p><p><em> “Mom </em>,” Kie rubs a hand over her face. </p><p>JJ grins. Shrugs. “I guess it’s been alright. This is a lovely property. Great view of the sea.” Kie side-eyes him, he winks at her. </p><p>Mike comes up, carrying a foil-covered pan, because he couldn’t help himself. He hands it to Anna, hugs Kiara tightly. “Why didn’t you tell me the mailbox’s jacked? I would’ve brought paint.” </p><p>He turns his gaze on JJ, brown eyes giving him a once-over. “Squatter,” He nods in acknowledgement. JJ swallows. “Mr.Carrera. Good to see you.”</p><p>“J? I think I hear the timer going off. Can you…?” She trails off, looks at him pointedly. </p><p>He excuses himself, relieved. He finds the painting shoved into the back of her closet, isn’t sure where to put it, so he replaces the dolphin one with it. </p><p>The four of them gather around the island in the kitchen, Kie talks Mike through the plans for dinner. JJ catches Anna studying him a couple times, like he’s a particularly difficult sudoku puzzle. </p><p>When they start to hear knocking at the door and it doesn’t stop, he knows the Heywards are here. Opens the door to find Hugo, fist still ramming against the wood. “Uncle J!” He presents two sheets of paper for JJ---their gifts. </p><p>“Hey, man,” JJ holds them carefully, moves to let him through. He runs past him, towards the kitchen. Kiara comes around the counter, sweeps him up in her arms, spins him around. </p><p>Pope comes up, JJ hugs him tightly, hands clapping backs, staggering in the doorway. He pats Julian’s shoulder, squeezes. Yvonne hesitates for a second, until he opens his arms, ignores the slight panic trying to grab at him, and her hug is bone-crushing. Heyward glances over the windows, the silver knob. “Damn.”</p><p>About thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings. JJ frowns at Kie, gets up from his seat. </p><p>When he opens the door he stops short. Blinks a couple times to make sure what he’s seeing is real.</p><p>Sarah Cameron’s on the porch. She’s got on a white trench coat, golden hair falling down her back, a bottle in her hand with a silver ribbon around the neck. She shifts on her feet, her hands are out a little, as if to say, <em> surprise! </em></p><p>His jaw goes slack. She beats him to it. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” She says. “I know this is...Pope invited me, and I just thought---”</p><p>“Fuck,” He grins widely. “Warn a guy.”</p><p>Her shoulders relax slightly. She holds up the bottle in her hand. </p><p>“Hey Kie?!” He calls over his shoulder.</p><p>Kiara stops beside him in the doorway, her eyes widen slightly. “Hey.”</p><p>Sarah exhales. “Hey.” She’s frozen, braced for it. </p><p>Kie starts to smile in disbelief, nose scrunched up. “Champagne?”</p><p>Sarah’s been doing well. Still an antiques dealer, she spends most of her days walking around in plaid blazers and digging through old shit and sweet-talking people. She loves it, they can tell from the way she beams, tosses her hair over her shoulder. She’s been seeing a couple people here and there, a doctor, a fisherman, but nothing serious. She’s never met Hugo. Pope introduces them, he tells her she looks like the sun. JJ’s a little offended. When Hugo returns to his stool, starts playing on Julian’s phone again, she wipes at her eyes, goes to help Anna set the table. </p><p>They pop Sarah’s champagne after dinner, the Pogues leave the dining room to sit on the couches in the living room and watch the countdown. He doesn’t know how to act, sits a reasonable, friendly distance from Kie on the couch. His efforts cancel out because she hooks her legs over his, and it would be impossible for him to not rest his hand on her calf. Live performance after live performance, and somehow, she ends up practically in his lap, eyes glued to the screen, tugging at strands of his hair. He plays with the hem of her sweater absentmindedly. </p><p>After a couple hours, the show gets paused. “Okay, I waited,” Sarah starts, and they all know what’s coming. “Patiently. Gracefully. But enough is enough. What exactly is going on here?” She points between the two of them with a red manicured nail. It’s nice to know some things will never change. </p><p>JJ gapes at her, looks at Pope, but he’s betrayed him, arms folded, eyebrows raised.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Kie has guts, he’ll give her that.</p><p>Sarah flicks her hand, leans back. “Nope. This is literally killing me. Out with it.”</p><p>He looks at Kie. Weighs up his options, says, “You want something to drink?”</p><p>Her eyes narrow, she sits back a little. “J---”</p><p>“I’m just gonna---I’ll be right back,” He says, scrambling up from his seat. </p><p>“You are not seriously leaving me here,” Kie grabs at his sweatshirt, he dodges. </p><p>“I’ll be right back. Scout’s honor.”</p><p> He reaches for the champagne in the kitchen, catches her flipping him off from across the room. </p><p>He figures he’s gotten himself a small reprieve from the interrogation. Hugo’s alone at the island, looks up from his dad’s phone. “Are you and Auntie getting married?”</p><p>He nearly spits his drink out. “I--” His eyes move towards the couch, mercifully, Kiara isn’t looking at him anymore, hasn’t overheard.</p><p>It’s been a week. He watches her talk to Sarah, watches her hands move, her smile---clearly the conversation has shifted away from them. The tag of her sweater is sticking out. Her curls look soft, enticing. “Maybe?” He looks back at Hugo, whose eyes are widening. “Shit---<em> shoot </em>,” JJ smacks a hand over his mouth. The pair stare at each other for a moment, Hugo’s jaw falls to the floor. “No. Maybe. Not right now.”</p><p>When they’re all walking out to the beach with the sack of fireworks, Kie jabs her fingers into his side, and he yelps involuntarily. “I can’t believe you left me alone with her.”</p><p>“Hey, you’ve always been better with that stuff. I crack easily.” </p><p>“Not even remotely true.”</p><p>“I knew you had it handled.”</p><p>They’re walking behind everyone else, she lowers her voice, “Or maybe you’re just a little bitch.”</p><p>He smirks. Then, “What did you say?” </p><p>“Nothing, don’t worry,” She breezes. Reaches in her bag, pulls out the box of snaps he’d meant to take out and hide. Slides them into her back pocket. “I think I’ll hold onto these. For a rainy day.”</p><p>Maybe he’s an idiot, but it sounds a little like she’s implying he’s sticking around. </p><p>They shoot fireworks on the beach, watch artwork form in the sky. Hugo and Yvonne wave sparklers in the air. In a predictable turn of events, JJ lights one too close to some driftwood, it catches fire. He and Mike kick it out towards the water. The colors glow across Kiara’s face, she grins at him, he could get used to this.</p><p>They make it back to the living room in time for the countdown. He watches the numbers go down, watches time run out. She’s guzzling champagne out of a tiny flute, glowing in the light of the T.V. She kisses him when the shouts erupt, it’s too slight, and then it’s over. </p><p>They’re on the porch when they finally talk about it, because apparently that’s where they deal with all their shit now. They’ve said their goodbyes to everyone, to Pope and Sarah, for now, not forever, ever again. </p><p>“You don’t have to stay,” She leans on the railing, digs her nails into it, the rest of her body is relaxed.</p><p>He’s not sure how he’s supposed to take that. “Do you want me to go?”</p><p>She hasn’t looked at him since they came out here. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something. Or not even that, like you...like you have to stay, for my sake.” </p><p>He rubs a hand over his face. “You’re kidding, right?” He’s suddenly tired of all of it. “If I was gonna stay, trust me, it would be completely selfish.” </p><p>She looks at him, raw and trusting. “Stay.” </p><p>He still has trouble believing it. “Yeah?”</p><p>“I know it’s fucked-up. A million times over. There are a lot of things I regret saying to you and a lot of things I regret not saying. Stay,” She takes his hand, and he lets her, it makes her press on. “I just...I wanna stop by the auto shop, or the country club, instead of avoiding them. I wanna start surfing again. I wanna come home and know you’re here too. Please stay.” She takes a breath, it shakes. “Stay, because if you don’t, I would bet this fucking house that we’ll be back here in five years. And five after that. And five after that. Old habits don’t really die,” She smiles wryly. “Especially when they’re this good.”</p><p>His eyes sting, he runs his hands up and down her arms. “You know, I used to think about shit like this all the time. Us, at our own place. The Chateau, or somewhere else. Didn’t matter, as long as you were there,” He pauses. “Are you sure about this? Being stuck with me?”</p><p>She shrugs. “Everyone else is annoying.”</p><p>“I’m plenty annoying.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I kinda like it.” </p><p>He grins, wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulls her into his chest. Somewhere in the distance he can see fireworks against the horizon. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading!</p><p>songs that inspired this: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4g1abeZunV6YIWploRRyRv</p><p>Happy Holidays y'all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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